An Argetlam meets Aragon
by jpdt19
Summary: Eragon and Saphira, just after the events of eldest, find themselves somehow transported from one war into yet another. Eragon LOTR crossover first author story: Chapter 6 Newly Updated!
1. Chapter 1

Alagaëísia meets Middle Earth with a bang!

**All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I do not own the rights or characters to the Eldest Trilogy or to the Lord of the Ring's Trilogy. The eldest Trilogy is the work of Christopher Paolini and the Lord of the Ring's Trilogy is the work of J.R.Tolkein.**

The horn blasts rang out through the valley, loud, compelling, and for a second his foes hesitated, looking this way and that for more enemies. But as the echoes of the last horn blasts died away and no help came, Boromir knew that he was about to die. Willing himself to ignore his utter exhaustion, and the pain of the orc arrow in his shoulder, he lowerd the horn, He staggered backwards, his footsteps unsteady, until he felt the rough bark of a tree at his back. Comforted slightly by the knowledge he no could not be assailed from behind, he surveyed his plight.

In front of him he saw four of the Uruks close in on him, blades held high, while off to his left he glimpsed a number of orc bowmen. He watched resignedly as they nocked arrows on their bow-strings and stood ready to loose yet more darts at him. He knew that even if he succeeded in slaying the four attacking uruks, he would still die swiftly afterwards, riddled with arrows as soon as the orc archers had a clear shot.

And yet, despite the growing sense of despair, he vowed silently to himself that as a soldier of Gondor and the son of the steward, if he was to die, he would take as many of the accursed creatures with as he could. Trying to ignore his utter exhaustion, and the stabbing pain of the shaft in his shoulder, he hefted his long sword high and prepared to defend himself, watching as the Uruks broke into a charge.

The first was overconfident, leering, certain that he would have an easy victory and he paid dearly for it. Boromir's first heavy stroke hit the orc's sword with a loud clanging crash, broke the blade cleanly and continued on downwards to bury itself deep in the foul creatures chest. Wrenching his sword free of the dying orc Boromir swung the long blade in a fast and swift arc, black blood dripping for the tip, slicing it into the neck of the second Uruk with a meaty thump.

But the force of the desperate blow swung the man of Gondor round, leaving him open to attack, and as he realized his mistake and spun in a desperate attempt to correct it, a mighty blow struck the flat of his sword and it broke.

The strike forced him almost to his knees and threw him back against the tree trunk, slightly dazed. Now disarmed he looked up to see a great troll like Orc, bearing the white hand of Saruman on it's gear, leering stupidly down at him from it's mangled face. He twisted desperately to one side to avoid the second blow, and instead of burying itself in his flesh the blade struck the horn hanging from the strap round his neck, cleaving the ancient thing in two. The troll, reckoned him to be helpless, and with a stupid grin raised its orcish sword again to strike at him once more. That grin turned swiftly to a grimace of agony as with a last great effort Boromir struck, hewing desperately at the neck his foe with the sharp remnants of his sword, slicing through flesh and muscle and bone.

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The great beast seem to sag at the knees and then, with a loud thud it toppled sideways and hit the ground heavily as it's legs gave way. As Boromir drew in desperate gasps of air to fill his aching lungs, he noted absent mindedly that its head had been severed almost completely from its body.

As he staggered to his feet, leaning on the tree for support, he suddenly remembered the threat of the orc archers and twisted his head round to look for them; unconsciously tensing his body in anticipation of a pain of another arrow strike. His sudden action probably saved his life once again, as in a swift blur an arrow streaked by him to thump harmlessly into the wood of tree, so close he felt the air of it's passing on his face.

His eyes picked out his attackers, two smaller orcs and a larger Uruk, wielding a larger bow than was normal with Orcs. Boromir instinctively was sure that this was the Uruk whose arrow had hit him earlier, he knew few Orcs would master such a bow as this, they preferred the smaller orc bows like those wielded by the Uruk's companions. The Uruk, its face daubed in white with the white hand, snarled at him and then its foul face twisted into what Boromir could only guess to be amusement at his predicament. The Man of Gondor's temper rose and he struggled to stand and attack, but another arrow struck him, this time in the chest and he again he felt the pain come like fire. He staggered back against the tree once more and watched and waited for his own death to come.

In the next few moments, time seemed slow down, his eyes watched as the Uruk slowly pulled another arrow of his quiver, but his mind flickered and jumped from thought to thought. The Fellowship had surely failed, Pippin and Merry had been taken, Gandalf had fallen into darkness, and now he had succumbed to the dark will of the ring. Surely dooming them all by scattering their company to the winds in the search for Frodo. An image came before his eyes of the white tower of Gondor, the tower of the stewards standing tall, white and proud. Now in his mind he saw the tower, the walls and citadel crumble, Minas Tirith taken and Gondor, his land, fallen into darkness. His fault.

That vision hurt him more than any wound and as his mind returned to him, he saw the Uruk nock and loose another dart at him. As it silently sped towards him, he rested frozen against the tree, knowing with definite certainty that this one would most certainly kill him.

As he tensed in anticipation of the strike the silence of the clearing was broken by a savage cry in a foreign tongue. In amazement Boromir watched as the orc arrow seem to slow and stop dead in the air scarce feet in front of him, before dropping harmlessly to the blood soaked ground. Looking round for the source of the harsh cry he saw standing at the far edge of the clearing from the orcs a gleaming mail glad figure.

That which happened next Boromir could not understand but he saw quite clearly, and he saw the mailed figure swiftly raise it's right hand and then wondrous to behold bright light seemed to glow in that extended palm as the figure cried aloud in the same strange language as before. Amazed he watched the two smaller orcs seemed to stiffen before crumpling lifelessly to the ground. He watched as the Uruk, abandoning it's harmless and grievously wounded prey, charged towards the new attacker with a great cry of rage, drawing its long and stained Orc blade as it ran.

The silvery figure seemed to blur as Boromir's eyes darkened from the pain, but he clearly saw it draw a long white bow with elven swiftness and loose an arrow at the attacking Uruk. Once more his saviour cried aloud and with a distinct crackle and flash the arrow burst into a blinding blue flame, enveloping the charging orc in a blinding and deafening explosion. Before his mind slipped away into darkness to escape the agony his body was in Boromir also vaguely saw the silver figure sway and collapse against a tree. Then his eyes were covered and he knew nothing but darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Sorry this took so long everyone, Real life intervened, that and i got scared by the scale of the task i had set myself. Hope you like this chapter. Thanks for all those who reviewed, really helped encourage me to write. I would welcome constructive cristicism please no flamers.

**All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I do not own the rights or characters to the Eldest Trilogy or to the Lord of the Ring's Trilogy. The eldest Trilogy is the work of Christopher Paolini and the Lord of the Ring's Trilogy is the work of J.R.Tolkien.**

The shadows had lengthened while he sat; the last few hours of daylight were drawing to a close. The long shadows of the trees had crept steadily across the grass and still the man had sat, hunched on a fallen log, lost in thought. Across the clearing the grey figures of his companions waited patiently, two gray shapes beneath the tree's shade, tending to the lifeless figure of a third. Every now and then one of the other figures slipped into the woods, barely visible in his gray raiment, to return shortly. Each time he shook his head, each time the other lowered his axe, and returned to his vigil of the third.

Of their original nine there remained but four companions, one of whom was gravely wounded. And of the rest? One lost into darkness, beyond theirs or any mortals help. Two captured, who would no doubt suffer cruelly without urgent aid and rescue. Two missing, now across the river and into wild lands, unprotected and unguarded. He had sworn to protect and help one of them, had seen the relief in his eyes, yet now they were gone, alone.

He sat on the log, and turned the facts of the situation over and over in his mind, searching for any possibility he had overlooked. He knew there was none, but still he sat, wracked with indecision and self doubt. Now more than ever did he miss the council of his friend, wishing he could share this heavy burden with another. So many times in the past had the old man shown him some previously unseen path, some other course of action in a crisis. Yet he did not think that there was any easy solution to his problem, simply the choice of one bad road over another.

A choice then; to aide two innocents in clear and present danger, or to forsake them and help two others, in no less if not more danger, but in better present circumstances. He rose swiftly, and crossed the clearing with long strides, his boots sinking into the soft turf at each step. His two companions rose as he drew near, their faces anxious, curious.

He gave a wan smile, and dropped to a knee beside the third still figure. The man's face was very pale, his breathing shallow and stained. Drawing back the blanket that covered him, he gazed with concern at the bandaging beneath. He and the others had drawn the arrow from the shoulder easily enough, but they had not yet touched the shaft in the chest. He could feel the stub of it still, beneath the thick layers of linen.

All three had seen many wars, knew the danger of an arrow in the chest or thigh. He hadn't dared remove it, fearing that sudden fatal rush of bright red blood he had seen too often before. He had resorted to snapping off as much as the shaft as was safe, and cleaning the wound as best he could, though they had dared not kindle a fire to boil water. The slain corpses scattered at the far end of the clearing served as a visible reminder of what enemies might lurk still nearby.

He looked up at the short bearded figure beside him, "has he stirred at all?" he asked.

The dwarf shook his head, then looked at Aragorn intently, his fingers slowly stroking the haft of his axe.

The man waited, guessing what the dwarf was about to ask.

The question came. "So what do we do now then Aragorn?"

When the ranger did not immediately reply Gimli went on.

"I've been sitting here for close to a half hour, puzzling out what's to be done, and I still can't decide."

The words suddenly poured out of the dwarf with all the anger and rage of a man who is backed into a corner, forced to choose between two equally unwelcome choices, and liking neither.

"I don't like the idea of those poor little hobbits heading off to Mordor alone, but at the same time I don't think I could live with myself if we didn't try to help Merry and Pippin. Unless I miss my guess, they're being taken to Saruman, and who only knows what cruelties they will suffer in that nest of dark wizardry. That's assuming they're unhurt or even both still alive."

"We found no sign of them, save their swords and some confused tracks" broke in Legolas "but I doubt Boromir would have fought here all alone, save if he was protecting someone, or something."

Aragorn nodded in agreement, "beyond the trees there are traces of hobbit footsteps, running in this direction down the hill. The ground here is heavily trodden but I imagine that here they met Boromir, when we heard his horn the first time."

He walked the turf, imagining it all. "He fought them here, Bowmen and Uruks. He probably told the hobbits to run for help, while he tried to hold them off, too many foes for him alas.

"And Merry and Pippin?" said Gimli "what do you think happened to them?"

Aragorn paced lost in thought, his knuckles clenched white upon his sword hilt.

" I imagine they were seized, bound and taken. Carried off west by Orcs before we arrived. There are many tracks south of her, near where we found their weapons.

One of the blades had blood on it, so they may have tried to defend themselves, but with little success I guess."

"Let us hope they did not pay to dearly for their bravery," muttered Gimli aloud.

"I do not think they will be harmed Gimli, not yet at least, Saruman will not want his goods spoiled before they can tell him anything."

The dwarf grunted agreement, "So do we go after them Aragorn? You lead this company, now Gandalf's gone, the decision is yours."

Aragorn shook his head "such a decision is not for one man to make, and indeed I think I have lead poorly until now. I do not know what Gandalf intended, but I know it was not for me to go to Mordor, but to Minas Tirith."

He sighed, "If it were not for Boromir, I would already have gone after Merry and Pippin, their need is greatest now."

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A low moan was heard from behind them, the sound of a man in pain.

As one they hurried to the litter of their companion and clustered anxiously around him.

Gimli and Aragorn knelt while Legolas took up a waterskin, pouring water into a beaker which he held ready in case it were needed.

Boromir's eyes flickered a few times. He mumbled some indecipherable words, moaned softly, then was silent once more.

In the silence, the soft splashing sound of water on dry earth was heard as loud as a beat on a drumskin. As Legolas let the beaker fall, hands faster than the eye could follow already had an arrow on the string of his bow, the tip pointed behind them at the dark tree line.

His two companions reacted fast, though not as fast as the elf. Aragorn's sword was out of its sheath in a flash, the blade glittering in the dying light, while Gimli held his axe with a fierce double handed grip that promised slaughter to any foe that came. They stood around the helpless Boromir, prepared to defend him from any sudden attack.

The three of them faced the opposite tree line expectantly. Their grey elven cloaks seemed to blend into the falling shadows as they waited, silent.

From within the tree line stepped a figure clad in silver mail, a long white bow in one hand, a white quiver over his shoulder. He made no attempt to put arrow to string, in fact judging by the way his left arm hung limp at his side, he could not even if he wished.

His short hair was dark brown, his features strong but smooth, and his ears curved into gentle points.

In short, the figure in mail appeared to be an elf, but like no elf Aragorn, Legolas or Gimli had ever seen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Ok folks,** _slightly_** quicker update time, but not much i admit. Sorry but have been revising, writing essays etc for the last few months so that got in the way of things. Thanks for all your enthusiastic reviews, really encouraging do please keep it up. Sorry no Saphira just yet but as you'll see she's nearby and we'll see her in the next chapter which should be up** _quite_** soon,** _hopefully_**! I've not started writing it yet but i've got it planned out.**

**Btw slightly longer chapter. For whoever suggested it, i agree it's better to have longer chapters if my update schedule is going to be so unpredictable. Thus intend to aim for 3000 words ish or maybe more, we'll see! **

**Hope you enjoy**

**All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I do not own the rights or characters to the Eldest Trilogy or to the Lord of the Ring's Trilogy. The inheritance series is the work of Christopher Paolini and the Lord of the Ring's Trilogy is the work of J.R.Tolkien.**

Chapter 3

He gazed at them, took in the sword and the axe, the drawn string and the arrow. With an audible wince he bent to one knee, and laid the long gleaming bow on the damp grass. He gazed at them again, and then standing, took one step backwards.

It was a conciliatory action, a gesture of peace. Aragorn loosened his grip on his sword ever so slightly and continued to study the stranger. His face was guarded, wary, and beside him his companion's weapons never moved. Legolas still held his bow in a motionless grip, the string drawn back beyond his shoulder.

The strange elf spoke first. "I mean you no harm." His voice was harsh, cracked with pain. Aragorn frowned slightly. The elf had spoken in the common tongue of the west, the words clear and understandable, but with an accent and inflection the ranger could not place. Stranger still, the voice, through the obvious pain, was that of a young man.

Aragorn took a few moments to study the figure in front of him more closely. His features was smooth like those of an elf, but stronger, the cheeks harder like those of men. His hair was a dark brown, and unremarkable. He wore gleaming mail, but in places the armour was battered and stained. Some of the stains were of earth and leaves, but others were darker. In places the mail shone brighter, showing where it had been recently repaired. In other sections it was dented and battered, clearly from heavy and recent use. He wore on his left hand a leather glove, but his right hand was bare. His eyes were brown, their gaze steady, but watchful. He did not appear to be nervous, more concerned, and cautious.

All this the ranger took in a few short glances. He had no doubt that beside him his two companions were similarly scanning the stranger, looking for threats.

Aragorn could sense no dishonesty from him. He was clearly hurt, his drawn features and stiff posture made that obvious. None the less he didn't lower his guard. He knew from long and painful experience the tricks and cunning of the enemy. There was something about this stranger that was wrong, something that made him instantly wary.

"Who are you?" The ranger spoke loudly, the menace clear in his tone. "and what is your business in these lands?"

* * *

Eragon considered these questions for a few moments.

Despite his calm exterior, the rider was not the least comfortable with the situation he was in.

Questions flashed through his mind, one after the other, questions which he had no answer too.

To speak his true name was risky and could be dangerous. While the elf the man and the dwarf had only shown caution thus far, that could quickly change. He was unarmed, swordless, and hurt for the bargain. Furthermore he doubted in his weak and injured state that he could draw on the magic to any great use.

For the second time that afternoon, the first being when he regained consciousness for the second time that day, this time alone deep inside some thick bush, he chastised himself mercilessly inside for rushing off.

He had no idea of the allegiances of the three people in front of him. To encounter an elf, a man and a dwarf together by itself was unusual. While he sincerely doubted that any elf would ever serve Galbatorix, the circumstances were hardly normal. Their minds and intentions were also unhelpfully closed to him, behind barriers stronger than most he had seen, save in Ellesméra.

As for the second question, that was equally problematic and to his mind linked in with the first. Since their violent arrival scarce hours previously, everything about this land had served to confuse and unsettle him.

This forested hill by a waterfall was unlike anything he and Saphira had crossed on the flat northern plains on Surda, prior to their arrival. Those lands had been open, wide, with no rivers save small lakes and streams.

The strange creatures he had killed were worse than any Urgal. They had felt evil, wrong, almost twisted in some fashion when he had touched their minds. He had recoiled in disgust, striking out without care for his injured arm. He had felt the bone snap as he released, the agony making the spell many times stronger than he intended. He had felt Saphira's mental cry of concern and pain before he had collapsed silently into the bush.

The tall man in front of him must have taken his thoughtful silence to mean something else. He hefted his sword and repeated his question. He had a dangerous look and his voice was tense and threatening.

The words themselves were confusing. Their meaning was clear, he understood every word. It was the accent, the manner in which the words had been said that was foreign, strange to him.

He felt Saphira's consciousness brush his mind, as she watched all that happened through the link between them. He could sense her concern. Once again he repeated his mental command for her to stay put. She was clearly angry and fearful, but she acquiesced. He did not dare have her cease to guard their camp, not with those foul creatures around. He at least could defend himself, to some degree.

He sighed slightly, and then answered the question as best as he felt it was prudent to do so.

* * *

Aragorn, unnerved slightly by the elf's silence, had repeated his statement slightly more forcefully.

The elf was clearly deep in thought, his brown eyes pensive, and surveying each of them closely. He had made no threatening moves, but neither had he yet answered.

Just when Aragorn was about to speak once more, the elf answered. His words were measured, clearly long considered and not particularly helpful.

"My name is not one that I would yet have known openly, without knowing who it is that asks."

He paused slightly, and then continued.

"However, I will take a risk considering the situation. My name" he paused slightly "is Eragon, and my lord is Nasuada, leader of the Varden.

Aragorn saw the elf's hand drift slightly towards a dagger on his belt, while his eyes watched them intently, seemingly waiting for some reaction to the name.

After a few seconds, when they made no threatening moves or showed any reaction, he relaxed slightly, and let his hand drop loose to his side again.

"As for my business here," he seemed to shrug slightly, stiffening with a wince of pain at the action, "that's rather complicated."

He gazed swiftly around, once again taking in the trees, the high hills and the bodies of the slain Orcs scattered around.

"In all honesty, I don't know where I am or whose lands these are. I don't recognise this country, or those creatures." He gestured to the lifeless bodies of the orcs, which lay scattered in heaps around the clearing.

In the silence that followed this amazing statement, Legolas alone saw the elf's eyes flick first to the shrouded form of Boromir, then to a point at the far end of the clearing and then swiftly back to Boromir.

Aragorn's face was a picture of confusion. He gazed at the stranger, clearly at a loss. After a few moments of silence he began to speak.

"I am considered well versed in the lore of this middle-earth, and have travelled and lived longer than many, yet I know of no Varden, nor of any Lord Nasuada. Your tongue is strange to me and your appearance also. You appear as one of the firstborn, and yet different. You stand before us short hours after a vicious conflict in which near a hundred orcs attacked us. Two of our companions were taken, one was grievously hurt, and yet you live, and unless I miss my guess, were close by. "

"Why did you not help us? Why did they not attack you? Did you not hear the horn calls?"

Gimli saw the strangers eyes take on a dangerous glint, and hefted his axe slightly, but still Aragorn continued to talk. The ranger seemed to have momentarily lost his calm self-control

Aragorn stepped towards the elf, holding his sword ready and challenged him.

"I know of no elf who even wounded would not have aided Boromir. Who do you serve? Are you a servant of the enemy, some dark creation of his will? _Speak quickly_!"

* * *

As Aragorn advanced on the stranger, Legolas had once more raised his bow. He too had noted the angry glint in the stranger's eyes, and also a subtle shift in his body language. This 'Eragon's' right hand was held tense, the fingers outstretched, against his thigh.

With sudden wonder and apprehension Legolas saw a dull and warm light begin to grow beneath the stranger's fingers, clearly visible in the dim light of the clearing. Tensing, Legolas drew back on his bow string, ready to lose an arrow if Aragorn was attacked.

As the light grew steadily in strength, until it appeared as if the strange elf held in his hand a captured ray of the sun of Lothlorien, all three companions felt their skin tingle, as if the air in the clearing around them was being filled with some power. Even Aragorn, at a loss took a slight step backwards.

The wood elf saw that the strangers face was taught, both with pain and deep concentration, but his eyes still watched them closely. Suddenly he stiffened, gave a gasp of pain, and collapsed slightly to one knee. The light in his hand died abruptly, and the feeling in the clearing immediately vanished.

He stranger's chest rose and fell; his unwounded hand clenched tight, the fingers white and pressed against his chest. He suddenly looked very pale in the failing light, head down, and huddled on the forest floor.

"You do me a disservice. I was _already_ hurt when I heard the horn calls, yet I came. I left a pair of hurt friends alone in a strange new land, to help a companion of _yours_."

His voice was low, hoarse with pain. He tried to rise, but the moment his left arm brushed the ground, he gave a hiss of pain and stopped. He raised his head and glared at them with sudden anger, his voice growing in strength.

"I _killed _4 of these 'orcs', who were about to shoot your injured friend as he lay defenceless and alone. Without me, he would now be dead. As a result of my actions my arm is broken and my ribs are bruised. A _nice_ payment for my help!" His tone was bitter, sarcastic.

He closed his eyes for a second, breathing deeply. When he looked up again the anger had gone from his eyes, replaced by a tired look of resignation. "Believe what you want, but I am not your enemy. Your companion is wounded, if he means anything to you will let me help him. Perhaps then you will trust me!"

Aragorn lowered his sword, feeling the muscles in his arms relax slightly. He saw no deceit in the strangers brown eyes, simply fatigue and pain. Taking a chance, he stretched out one hand to the stranger. The elf considered it, then grasped it in a firm grip and Aragorn pulled him to his feet.

They surveyed each other then, two battered and suspicious figures, standing face to face under the light of a fading day. And as the sun cast longer shadows accross the green grass, each saw in the other's eyes something akin to approval.

* * *

Aragorn watched as Eragon sat and knelt beside Boromir, while Legolas gently pulled back the blankets from the chest of the wounded man. As the wood elf gently undid the bloody dressings, he saw the newcomer's face take on a grave expression.

The black stub of the arrow in the chest looked dreadful in the darkening shadows, shifting every time Boromir gave another long tortured breath. As Eragon gently laid his right hand on Boromir's chest, the man went into a fit of racked coughing that shook his body and caused fresh bright blood to weep from the wound in his shoulder.

As Legolas and Gimli tried desperately to prevent their friend from further injuring himself by forcefully holding Boromir down, Aragorn moved closer to Eragon.

"Can you help him?" He asked.

Eragon looked up at him, and Aragorn saw the lines of exhaustion on his face, the dark shadows of pain and fatigue in his brown eyes. He only nodded in reply, as if too tired to even speak.

His hand probed the bowl of water Gimli had brought, wincing slightly at the temperature, for although it was not winter, the river down from the north was icy cold.

He said aloud, "It would be better if it were warm, near boiling."

Gimli replied gruffly "we did not dare to kindle flame when other Orcs might still be near."

Eragon gave a slight nod of his head, in silent agreement with the wisdom of that statement. Nonetheless he gestured for Legolas to pass him some of the kindling that had been gathered earlier, prior to the Orc's attack.

To their surprise he did not ask for flint or tinder, but simply arranged the wood awkwardly with his right hand, then held his palm over it. For a moment or so nothing happened, and then they heard the elf mutter something in a low voice. There was small flash, a spark, and then a small glow of flame and plume of smoke.

Soon the fire was crackiling merrily, growing hotter as Gimli, with all the skill of a lifelong metal worker, carefully arranged the wood around it.

The bowl, placed on a support of three large stones, began to vibrate slightly as the water within it started to boil.

When Gimli judged the water to be warm enough, he handed the bowl to Eragon, who awkwardly began to clean the wound in Boromir's shoulder. Aragorn appreciated the gesture, knowing that this stranger was once more trying to prove himself worthy of their trust, but he signed for the elf to hand him the bowl and cloth. When the wound was clean of dirt and blood, Eragon touched the ranger's arm, and shuffled closer to Boromir.

Aragorn watched in curiosity as the strange elf held out his right hand once more, and placed it over the arrow wound in the wounded man's shoulder. He saw the elf close his eyes in concentration, and bend his head, as if deep in thought. To his wonder, once again a warm light began to gather around the fingers of the hand, lighting up the dark corner of the clearing. In the warm light Aragorn could see the bruised skin and bone of the Gondorian's shoulder clearly, he could see also the wealth of old scars and nicks that lined his body, the signs of a lifetime at war.

How long the four of them sat crouched there he could not tell, but it must have been several minutes. None of the three, elf, man or dwarf dared to move, lest they broke whatever spell the stranger was wielding, yet their eyes never left him.

At last the glow began rapidly to fade, until all that was left in that shadowy corner of a bright clearing, was the glow of their small fire. Eragon suddenly seemed to crumple, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Aragorn with swift hands managed to catch him and support his weight, lest he fell onto the wounded Boromir. Then he looked at the shoulder.

* * *

He felt his breath catch slightly in his throat. The bruises elsewhere remained, ugly dark marks on Boromir's ribs and chest. The shoulder however was completely unmarked, with no signs of bruising or indeed of any wound. Aragorn in total astonishment ran his fingers gently over the spot, feeling the warm, unblemished skin beneath his fingertips. His three companions wore similar expressions to that which he did not doubt his own features displayed, sheer amazement.

As one who had spent long years in Rivendell or Lothlorien, he had seen wondrous healing performed many time by Elrond half-elven or those of the golden wood. Their power was undisputed, Elrond had only recently shown his skill with Frodo, when he had removed the fragment of the morgul blade from the hobbit's shoulder, a fragment Gandalf himself could not reach. The ranger himself was considered by many learned in herb lore, and had treated many a dire wound, yet he had never seen healing as swift as this.

He felt Eragon shift in his grip, struggling to bring himself upright, his attempts hampered by his wounded arm. Aragorn gently but firmly helped him assume a more comfortable position, taking care to avoid his left side.

The elf murmured a few words of thanks, and then sank onto the ground once more, propped up on the elbow of his right arm. All three companions saw the muscles in the arm quivering with exhaustion as they tried to support the stranger's weight, then Eragon gave a grunt of frustration and resorted to lying on his back, propped up against some of their baggage.

He gave a slight cough to clear his dry throat, and then spoke. "The wound in the shoulder is healed, though it will be tender for some time, as for the chest wound.." His face, if it were possible took on an even graver expression. "I do not dare attempt to remove the arrow in my current state. In my exhaustion i would likely do more harm than good. I must wait and try regain some strength, and hope that he lasts that long."

This at first did not seem like a very good idea to the three companions. The chest wound was worrisome, the arrow buried deep inside Boromir's chest and they had no doubt it had caused grievous damage. In truth all three had been wondering how he was still alive, for they had known other great men succumb to lesser wounds.

On the other hand, they could see that this strange elf, wielding a power far beyond any of them had ever experienced, was close to lapsing into unconsciousness from exhaustion. If he were to heal Boromir, he clearly needed rest and time.

But they did not have time, raged Aragorn inwardly, for every hour took Merry and Pippin further away, further from aid. He stood up and began to pace anxiously, his shadow falling occasionally across the huddled figure by the baggage.

Save for the slight crackling of the fire, and the light splash of water as Gimli poured a drink for the stranger, the clearing was calm, quiet. But no sooner had Gimli handed the cup to Eragon, watching the elf curiously from by the fire as he began to drink, than the quietness was shattered. Another fit of ghastly racking coughs caused Bomomir's head to roll to one side in agony and then a small sliver of red began to run slowly down his cheek from the side of his mouth.

The three companions exchanged a despairing look. They all knew what that meant.

"He's bleeding in his lungs." Eragon's words cut through the ghastly silence, his voice flat, exhausted.

**As always please review helpfully :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the long Wait Ladies and Gentleman, but real life is somewhat irritating and distracting sometimes. **

**Thanks to all for the many reviews and thanks also to my wonderful advisor WendWriter! **

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**All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I do not own the rights or characters to the Eldest Trilogy or to the Lord of the Ring's Trilogy. The eldest Trilogy is the work of Christopher Paolini and the Lord of the Ring's Trilogy is the work of J.R.Tolkein.**

**Chapter 4**

"How long?" Legolas asked. Aragorn guessed the elf knew the answer already, but asked out of some vain hope.

"Not long. He'll choke to death, and be dead inside an hour, probably less," he said

"Is there nothing we can do? Aragorn?" Gimli's voice was gruff.

"This is beyond my skills at healing."

"Legolas?" The dwarf turned to the elf this time.

The wood-elf shook his head. "I know nothing that would help with so a grave injury."

"But I do." All three turned as one to Eragon, still resting against the baggage.

"Can you truly heal him? You said yourself that you needed to rest." asked Aragorn. The ranger sounded hopeful but also doubtful.

"Yes, what would happen if you made a mistake, you could kill him," Interjected Gimli.

"If we don't do anything, he will surely die anyway," put in Legolas.

That made the other two fall silent, as they considered the truth in the elf's words.

Eragon gave an audible wince of pain as forced himself to sit upright. He felt his wounded arm protest at the movement, but it needed to be done. "I can't help him here, but there's a place nearby where I can."

"How far?" asked Legolas.

"A little less than a mile."

"There are no settlements near here; none dare live so close to the black land in these days." It sounded more like a question than a statement to Eragon. The man's dark eyes surveyed him watchfully.

"I have companions nearby, they can help."

He watched the dark haired man digest that bit of information. The man didn't say anything, but Eragon guessed he was was wondering whether to trust him. It occurred to Eragon that he still didn't know who or what any of these people were

"Assuming these companions of yours are still there, and that they can help Boromir, can we risk moving him? It could kill him."

"They're still there, and as your elf friend said, he'll die anyway if we don't do something to help him."

Aragorn saw Legolas stiffen in irritation at being called an "elf friend" but the ranger agreed with the stranger, despite his misgivings. From Legolas's earlier comment, he knew the elf would also agree. Gimli too nodded in agreement at Aragorn's questioning look, though from the dour expression on the dwarf's face, he guessed that he wasn't the only one with unanswered questions.

* * *

There was a sharp cracking noise, as Gimli used his axe to trim another branch to the right length. He and Legolas were swiftly constructing a form of bier or stretcher, binding together branches with rope fetched along with the baggage from the boats. The framework was already finished, and now Legolas was winding together a network of smaller springy branches, to form a mattress like cradle.

Aragorn watched the two of them, appreciating the skill with which the work was being done. He had spent the last few minutes keeping a close eye on Boromir, though what good he could do he was uncertain. He had volunteered, partly because both Gimli and Legolas were better and more experienced craftsmen, and partly so that he could keep an eye on Eragon.

The strange elf had gratefully agreed to let Aragorn put a sling on his wounded arm, and was now resting by the doused fire, drinking water. In his defence, he had offered to help, but they had insisted that he rest. Every now and then when Aragorn looked at him, he saw that the elves eyes were open, but slightly unfocussed, as if the Elf was lost in deep thought.

The ranger was closer to the mark than he might have imagined. Eragon was lost in thought, but unknown to Aragorn or the others; he was also in the middle of a conversation with Saphira.

**Eragon's POV**

"_Can you trust them?" _

"I don't know."

"_How's your arm?"_

"Painful." He didn't need to ask how she felt; he felt the pain of her wounded wing every time she moved. It was just one of those things. He thought with wry amusement at the chances of them both being wounded on the same side.

"_You shouldn't have run off like that!_"

"I know, I've already said I was sorry."

"_It was foolish thing to do, what would Oromis think of you?" _Eragon grimaced, easily imagining the disappointed look on the face of his teacher.

He didn't bother to answer, and to his relief Saphira fell silent too.

He looked over at Boromir's huddled form for a second, and remembered countless similar in the Varden's camp, on the day after the battle on the burning plains. The wounded had numbered into the hundreds with he and Saphira doing their best to aid the doctors and healers.

His breath caught slightly in his throat as he remembered another cloaked figure, lying ever so still on the blankets he had wrapped her in.

"Has she stirred at all?"

"_Not once, she's like she was when we first travelled to Fathen Dur."_

He felt the panic rise within him, but Saphira cut him off.

"_She's still alive Eragon, I can't explain it, but I can feel her, she's just … quiet."_

"Thanks." It was a simple word, but he tried to convey all the gratitude he could across the link joining them.

He felt her sigh, "_I'll see you soon little one, take care_."

His connection with her subsided into the background, though he could still sense her. It was just that he could no longer tell what she was thinking. He felt his arm throb with pain again even though he had not moved, and guessed she must have shifted.

He began to rise to his feet, for the elf and dwarf had clearly finished their work. The pair of them placed the bier next to the wounded man, whose name was apparently Boromir. Staggering slightly but swiftly recovering his balance, he watched the man spread a thick padding of clothes over the bier, piling up of cloaks and other clothes to make a soft mattress. With infinite care the three then lifted the wounded man onto the bier. Mercifully he was still unconscious, for the pain must have been terrible and he still gave a groan of agony. Working swiftly the three wrapped coverings around him, presumably to hold him in place as much to keep him warm.

**Legolas's POV**

Once Boromir was loaded onto the stretcher, the three companions hurriedly began to collect together their possessions. Aragorn and Legolas would be unable to carry much, for they would need to carry the stretcher. Legolas in any case had few possessions save for a small bag, which looped over his shoulder on a sling. At Aragorn's suggestion, the three of them decided to cache the packs they had brought up to the clearing in a thick and leafy bush on the far side of the clearing from where they had kindled their fire. As they hurriedly transferred the goods to this temporary hiding place, Legolas saw Eragon walk purposefully towards the far end of the clearing. As he had already deposited his load, the elf decided to follow, wary of this powerful stranger.

To his relief the stranger did not go far, coming to a halt in a patch of deep shadow, still a good few metres from the tree line. He seemed to be scanning the ground, apparently searching for something. As Legolas drew near, he saw that here too lay the corpses of slain orcs. The stranger made a small noise, a satisfied sound, and heading into a patch of deeper shade. He only walked a few paces, before bending down on one knee, and awkwardly reaching for something that Legolas could not see.

As Legolas caught up, he saw to his surprise that the grass all around them was burnt. The ground was scorched to bare earth, as if there had been a great fire or lightning had struck. Indeed, the elf's acute senses could still detect the scent of burning, along with some foul reek like overdone meat. It was then that he saw it, another corpse, a vast Uruk, clad in dark armour. Or at least, it had been once. The armour was blackened and torn; the flesh seared a ghastly shade of red and black. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed that the body still smoked slightly, as if it were a meal that had been overcooked.

Legolas stepped back in horror, gazing at the twisted and blackened form. The face, such as remained, was twisted into a terrible mask of agony, the features still daubed with paint in the shape of a ghastly hand. He heard Eragon walk up beside him and he turned to the stranger in wonder and alarm. There was a long arrow in the strange elf's hands, presumably the object that he had been searching for. It was beautiful, clearly Elven work, but the shaft was scorched and the arrowhead missing.

The stranger considered it for a moment, and then carefully slipped it carefully into his quiver, which Legolas saw contained many similar, if unburnt arrows. Legolas looked into his brown eyes, and asked the question that had puzzled him ever since he had first laid eyes on this strange elf.

"Who are you? How do you wield this power? You appear one of the firstborn, and yet your features are also akin to those of the race of men."

The stranger considered him, confusion evident on his features. Legolas had spoken in Sindharin, the tongue common to all elves, and yet this elf did not understand it. Even more confused, Legolas repeated his statement, this time in the common tongue.

The elf looked thoughtful, as if considering how to answer. After a few seconds he replied.

"I am not an elf, although I do look like one. I have already told you my name, though you have not told me yours. As for my 'power', that is a matter for another discussion. Come, we must hurry or your friend will not survive!"

With that, the stranger hurried over to where Aragorn and Gimli stood waiting for them. Legolas followed his mind racing. If this Eragon was no elf, then what was he? He clearly knew of elves, had recognised and addressed Legolas as one. Legolas could find no answer. As for the rest of his questions, the stranger had been decidedly evasive, turning Legolas's question back on the elf with ease.

Putting aside these questions for the time being, Legolas took his place at the far end of the bier. Together he and Aragorn lifted it off the ground. It held firm, a tribute to the two craftsmen's skill.

With a nod to Aragorn, Eragon set of across the clearing, and the two bearers followed him, while Gimli, heavily laden with a bag of provisions, brought up the rear.

* * *

Brushing aside the hundredth branch from his path, Eragon continued his journey uphill. Behind him he could hear the sounds of deep breathing, as the two bearers manoeuvred the bier over yet another awkward patch of ground. Further beyond that he could hear the clinking of metal as Gimli followed them.

They were nearing their destination, something he was grateful for, for the pain in his arm had started to take its toll. While it had only taken a few minutes for him to reach the clearing from where he had left Saphira earlier, this time, with a wounded man on a stretcher slowing them down, it was taking quite a lot longer. Gratefully he felt the ground begin to flatten off, which meant that they had reached the woody plateau north of the clearing where he and Saphira had landed.

He wasn't quite sure how they would react when they first encountered Saphira, which was worrying him. In all honesty he hadn't thought that far ahead, and this potentially serious problem had only occurred to him after they had already set off. She had already reassured him twice that she would not make any threatening moves, but he was still concerned.

He only hoped that they wouldn't do anything stupid. Neither Saphira or himself wished harm to these people, and neither of them were really in a fit state for a fight. It was of some small comfort that when the pair of them had originally set out earlier that day, she had insisted on wearing her armour. At the time he had disagreed with her decision, for on a long journey the heavy metal plates would tire her needlessly, but now he took comfort in the fact. She might be less manoeuvrable than usual, but the armour would help keep her safe should anything go wrong. And then there was the matter of who she was protecting. His fears about the safety of the third member of their party rose once again within him, involuntarily making him clench his hands tightly, causing another painful throb in his arm. He winced as the pain slowly subsided, and tried to think clearly.

**Aragorn's POV**

Aragorn gave a small sigh of relief as the ground began to level off, until they were walking across a narrow wooded plateau high on the slopes of Amon Hen. The trees were still thick around them, but the flatter ground made things much easier. With a clatter and clashing of metal on metal, he heard Gimli running to catch up with them, the dwarf's armour sounded as loud as a blacksmiths forge in the quiet of the forest. And it was very quiet, even the dull roaring of the Rauros seemed only a murmur here, high above the racing waters.

They walked under the tree canopy, their shadows long in the late afternoon light; their feet crunching softly on dead wood and twigs. The trees were thick here, tall and closely packed, although now and then they crossed a clearing, where fallen trees meant the sun shone brightly.

He judged a little over a half hour had passed since they had left the clearing, when Eragon stopped in front of him and turned to face them. His face was inscrutable; but Aragorn would have sworn he saw of look of worry on his face before he composed himself.

"I feel that I should warn you about something. Neither of my companions will harm you, or have any desire to do so. I want you to know that my bringing you is a matter of trust. You know my name, and who I serve, but I know nothing about you, save for the name of your wounded companion. I believe I can trust you, but be warned, if you try to harm me or any of my companions, you won't leave this place alive!" He gaze intently at Aragorn.

Aragorn did not hesitate for long. "You have my word Eragon, that I will do no harm to you or any of your companions!"

"And you have my word also," called Legolas from behind him.

Gimli walked forward to stand by his side, fingering his axe. Aragorn guessed the dwarf was simply thinking, unaware of what his fingers were doing. Unfortunately he saw Eragon's eyes narrow slightly, and saw him tense slightly.

Thankfully just then the dwarf prevented any further misunderstanding and spoke. "You have my oath as well." The dwarf paused for a moment, then added "but I warn you, any tricks and you'll suffer this dwarf's anger."

To Aragorn's relief, Eragon actually smiled slightly at that. "It seems that dwarfs don't change much, wherever you go. Very well master dwarf, I will hold you to your oath."

Gimli nodded, and followed the stranger towards a particularly thick patch of trees. They were tall, with thick bushes growing beneath them, shielding whatever was inside from view. Eragon led them unerringly towards a thinner section of foliage, slipping through it with no sign he had ever been there. Gimli followed holding back a branch to allow the bier easier access.

As they passed deeper through the bushes, Aragorn saw signs that something large had passed through this area of woodland not long previously. Broken branches were everywhere, and glancing up he caught sight of a number of others still attached to trees. They hung drunkenly, as if from the passage of some vast animal. The leaves had yet to curl or brown, showing this had happened very recently. Growing light up ahead told him they were coming to yet another clearing, presumably Eragon's destination. The nearer they got, the more the damage increased. Despite Eragon's words, Aragorn began to become concerned, and glancing ahead he saw that Gimli's hand was once again on his axe shaft.

Suddenly the woods rolled back on either side, and they were walking into the clearing. Gimli stopped suddenly, and stood as still as a stone. Legolas, his view blocked, saw Aragorn stiffen and stop abruptly. The ranger stood tall, as motionless and silent as one of the Argonath, his hands frozen upon the handles of the bier.

* * *

**Gimli's POV**

Gimli stood stock still, his hand frozen on his axe hilt, his heart pounding like it had in that last desperate flight from Moria. His eyes were fixed on the enormous shape at the opposite end of the small clearing, his brain frozen in horror and fear. A line of ivory spikes ran down a long back. Sheets of armour gleamed in the dying light of the sun. And a pair of bright sapphire eyes surveyed him with an intelligence that he had never imagined he would see in any beast.

It was a dragon, an enormous dragon, a dragon armoured with plate, a dragon, wearing a saddle? That strange fact seemed to shake him, and he found he had control of his limbs once more. He backed away sharply, and heard a hiss of breath as Legolas caught sight of it. He darted a quick glance at Aragorn, to see the ranger staring at the dragon with a looked of mixed horror and amazement on his face. After what seemed minutes, but was perhaps only seconds, the ranger backed away too, lowering the bier to the ground and drawing his sword. Gimli did not understand what he was doing, they should surely run; only a fool would stay here.

Aragorn did not move further, only stood there, watching. Legolas stood beside him, eyes wide, and his bow still on his shoulder. The Dragon did not move. It seemed to be surveying them with the same intensity that they were surveying it. He felt it's eyes come to rest on him once more, and without meaning too felt himself flinch. Then the Dragon did an amazing thing, it slowly dipped it's armoured head, in a clear gesture of peace and welcome. He heard Legolas give a soft cry of wonder. Gimli was taken aback. Dragons, as far as he knew did not behave like this. He had heard often the tales from his father and the other surviving companions of Thorin, knew of the arrogance and pride of Smaug.

He heard Eragon off to one side let out a sigh, but of what he was uncertain. Then the strange elf spoke, "Do not be alarmed, this is Saphira, one of my companions."

The dragon, 'Saphira' turned to look at Eragon for a moment, as if to speak. After a moment, the elf nodded, as if in response to words, and then replied in a strange and flowing tongue.

Eragon stepped between them and the Dragon and spoke loudly. "She means you no harm, as i promised and she has told me so. If you wish for me to help your companion as I promised, then trust me and bring him here. We do not have much time."

**Eragon's POV**

Eragon watched the three of them. Their reaction to the sight of Saphira had gone much as he expected. It was nothing new to the pair of them; they had experienced it many a time before. The man had looked scared, but had held his ground. The Elf, once he had caught sight of Saphira, had reacted much in the same way Elf's always did around her. The Dwarf's reaction had been the most violent, and he had seen the knuckles on the axe haft tighten until the knuckles turned white.

He had caught an un-suppressed feeling of deep hatred and anger from the warrior, far more than ever he had felt before. Could the Dwarfs have suffered more with Dragons in this land, wherever it was? Saphira had noticed it too, and had wisely bowed her head to the thee of them in reassurance. That was surprising, for she had refused to bow even to Hrothgar, the king of the dwarfs previously. It was a mark of how much the pair of them had grown up since their time in Ellesméra that she would be prepared to even act in such a way.

As he watched, the tall dark haired man stepped forward, gesturing for the others to remain with their wounded companion. To his credit he didn't flinch as he walked right up to Saphira and stopped only a few meters from her. He could feel her approval as she gazed at the man, green eyes meeting Sapphire.

**Aragorn's POV**

As Aragorn walked up to the dragon, he could feel his heart pounding slightly. Eragon stepped sideways to allow him past, and Aragorn shot him a glance. The elf looked thoughtful, but not concerned. This reassured Aragorn a little more, and the ranger clamping down hard on his instinctive feelings to run, strode forward slowly until he was only a few metres from the Dragon's head.

He saw it survey him. No not 'it' he realised, for Eragon had said 'her'. It was a female dragon. She looked at him now, a pair of amazingly bright sapphire eyes, watching him with obvious intelligence. She lay on her side to him; her wings folded against her body, back curving slightly, her body forming a rough circle. As he drew nearer, he saw what the shadows had previously hidden. She wore actual armour, plates of worked metal, which he saw with wonder had golden inlay worked into the surface. He saw too that she was resting her right forelimb, the one facing him, very gingerly on the ground, as if not wanting to put weight on it. He saw that the armour along her belly near the limb was bent and scratched, stained with earth. Combined with the damage to the treetops and the deep gouges he could now see in the ground, he guessed she was hurt, probably on landing.

He looked into her eyes again, remembering what he had heard of the wisdom of dragons. The intelligence he saw there seemed to confirm what he had heard. The intensity of her gaze reminded him painfully of Gandalf. He remembered many a long conversation over a pipe , when the wizard had gazed thoughtfully at him just like that, while making up his mind about something or other. On one of those occaisions, deep in some dell of old Arnor, or some glade of the old forest, the Wizard had told him of the quest of Thorin and Bilbo, and the fall of Smaug. As he stared into the dragon's eyes, to his wonder and shock he felt a voice speak inside his mind.

"_Well met stranger, my name is Saphira Bjartskullar, daughter of Vervada."_

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**End of chapter 4**

**Yes I know I'm a bastard, it's a horrible cliff-hanger, but there you go! Hope you enjoy. It might be a while until the next update, as I have exam revision to do! Now**

**REVIEW!! Once again for luck: REVIEW!!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Deepest appologies ladies and gentleman for the awful delay. Real life is most infuriating, as is policy of changing their layout every other day, which certainly doesn't help matters. Thanks for the continued support, even those people (won't mention names) who keep adding this story to their watch list but not having the courtesy to review. **

**I appreciate that you like the story, and the continued adding did encourage me. Still, please if you wouldn't mind, then leave a review. Doesn't have to be feedback, can just be "Great chapter, MOOR PLS," as some do. Just nice to see some hard proof people enjoy my efforts.**

**Anyway, without much further ado, VOILA!**

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**An Aragorn meets an Argetlam Chapter 5**

Aragorn froze, took a half step back, and brought his sword back up from where he had let it rest against his arm. He heard rather than saw his companions react. Gimli gave a low growl, while the galadhrim bow of Legolas gave a soft creak as the elf put arrow to the string.

Aragon watched Eragon on the edge of his vision, and took another half step back so the strange elf was easier to watch. Despite this Aragorn's eyes never really left the dragon, and he noted with some unease that its eyes had never left him. To hear voices in your head, he thought franticly, that was magic, evil magic, the work of the enemy.

There were a few moments of tense silence, before the dragon snorted, a whisp of smoke emerging from one of its nostrils to disperse slowly in the sheltered space of the clearing. If anything the beast looked amused by the situation.

"_Calm yourself brightsword"_, said the voice again, a deep voice, yet at the same time unmistakably female, "_there is no need to be alarmed. On your honour you swore us no harm, would you break that oath now? Or is there no honour in your nest."  
_

The insult checked Aragorn, as he suspected it had been intended too. The dragon's words hadn't been threatening, merely calming, but at the same time he had detected a definite note of warning in the voice's tone. His mind raced, should he reply, was the creature reading his mind?"

"No, she's not." The voice intruded upon Aragorn's confused thoughts, bring him out of his watchful daze. "Saphira is a dragon, she cannot speak, but she can project her thoughts. She will not trespass in your mind, but it is the only way she can speak to us." Eragon had moved slightly to one side, and was now leaning against a tree, watching him closely, his good arm curled around the bark.

"And how can I be sure of that. If neither you nor she can read my thoughts, how did you know what I was thinking?" Aragorn replied curtly, his sword held ready still.

Eragon visibly shrugged, the mannerism very human despite his elvish features. "I didn't, not for certain. I was just guessing. From your reaction, it looked like you'd never heard anyone else's voice in your mind before. Anyway, even if we wanted to know what you were thinking, we couldn't. "All your minds", he said, indicating the others with a small gesture of one, "they're closed to us."

"So if truly you cannot enter our minds Eragon, said Legolas," his voice showing no signs of exertion, despite the arrow that was still ready to fly, "Then how can she speak to us?"

Eragon shrugged again, wincing slightly. "It's complicated" he said unhelpfully. Then, sensing that the group would want a better explanation than that he continued hurriedly. "Ok, imagine this. Someone comes around your house to try visit." he said, clearly deep in thought. "The door of the house is bolted so they can't get inside, but you can still hear the man outside calling your name."

Aragorn ran over Eragon's words in his head a few times, silently. "And if I wanted to reply," he asked carefully, "how would you explain that?"

Eragon gave thin smile

"That's the easy part, or conversely, the more difficult bit. Saphira can hear and understand you, so really you have no need to reply in your mind. You can speak aloud, and she'll talk back. It's usually considered rude to speak to a rider's dragon without asking permission, though if you want to considering the circumstances I won't be offended."

"If you wished to talk to her in your mind though, you'd have to let down your mental barriers. To continue my earlier analogy, the owner of the house would have to unbolt his front door and let the man outside in in order to speak to him," said Eragon, watching Aragorn carefully.

He was not disappointed, for an expression of discomfort flashed briefly across the man's weathered face at the thought of letting someone else into his mind.

"And in unbolting his door, he'd open his house to thieves and villains," growled Gimli.

The armour on Saphira's neck glinted as she turned her head slightly, and gazed at Gimli, what little sun there was in that high clearing playing across the armour plates as they flexed smoothly. Aragorn watched her anxiously, watching those immense blue eyes lock on unerringly on the dwarf. To his credit Gimli didn't flinch, though his knuckles tightened around the haft of his axe.

"Dragons cannot be trusted," he said loudly, "why would any man wish to share his thoughts with such a beast. What are we doing Aragorn, seeking their aid? Are you mad? Dragons do serve anyone, they care nothing for men, or dwarfs, or elves. They care only for jewels, gold, for the wealth of others!"

Aragorn flinched. The dwarf was right of course, but it appeared the hatred among his race for the creatures had driven the sense from his mind. The dragon gave a low growl, revealing a mouth set with viciously sharp teeth, and lifted its head, the long neck extending, until it towered over the dwarf. The dragon's movements had been astonishingly fast, but what happened next was even swifter.

There was a twang, and a thrum of feathers, as Legolas released his arrow. The golden fletched arrow flew true, heading for the dragon's eyes. It never reached its intended target, but stopped dead in mid air only half way to the dragon, before dropping tip first towards the ground. Then, before the dragon could attack, Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli saw Eragon stumble to place himself between them, shouting at the dragon in the unknown language they had heard before.

The dragon growled angrily at him, but the strange elf just stared into the beast's eyes, and spoke to it. The words were soft, their tone insistent. Aragorn saw the beasts claws dig deep into the earth, as it gripped the ground hard, its tail twitching from side to side like a cat. After a small while, she ceased growling, but her tail continued to twitch, and he noticed that her eyes never left Gimli.

He noticed too that she not moved. She had clearly been very angry, and still was, but she had not even begun to shift from her position on the ground. Her body was still curved into a half circle, her haunches blocking the view of her far side. As his eyes fell once more on her right forelimb, he wondered if the dragon was more badly hurt than he had first thought.

**Eragon's POV  
**

Eragon tried to ignore his growing headache. Things were going badly. Saphira's anger at the dwarfs insults was still coursing hotly through her body, bleeding through the bond between them, and making it increasingly difficult for him to think. The pain of his arm didn't help matters.

The dwarf's words were puzzling. As Saphira had herself told him so long ago, Dragons did not care for wealth or jewels. They attached no value to such things, why should they, when their scales glittered brighter and more beautifully than any jewels or gold. An image from his training in Du Weldenvarden rose before his eyes, of Glaedr silhouetted against the setting sun, his golden scales shining brilliantly with an inner fire.

Dragons neither cared for nor had no need for material possessions, or wealth, so why did these people think they did?

His eyes fell on the bier behind the three strangers, and the wounded form of Boromir. Time was slipping away. He shook his head slightly, and tried to ignore the slow fire that was Saphira's anger.

"Will you let them approach you?" he queried her tentatively.

There was a slow rumble, a moment of silence and then she replied. "_Yes, for the sake of the wounded man" _came the mental rumble,_ "but not the dwarf!"_

Eragon nodded slightly. Truth be told, the dwarfs words had aroused a deep anger in himself as well as in Saphira. He could take insults to himself with little affect, not that they came often, but he found any insult or slight to Saphira hard to bear. Not that they occurred often, few dared anger a dragon, but there were still those who treated her as an ignorant animal. Admittedly most did it out of ignorance, for little Dragon lore had survived Galbatorix's censorship, but it still rankled.

The dwarf's words had been much worse, for not only had he insulted her honour, but he had also compared her to a scavenger. All this he knew from his studies, or from Saphira herself. Dragons were masters of the hunt, and while not arrogant, cared little for the affairs of humans. To suggest a dragon was both dishonourable, and a picker other's kills, that was an insult that ranked close with insulting family.

Still, he had forced down on the anger mercilessly, although it had been hard. He was still angry, but at least the blaze of sharp rage that had risen within him had now subsided. He looked straight at the tall weather beaten man opposite from him, and spoke harshly. "We have already given you our word, as have you. Have you no honour? Saphira will not harm you, although you have given her and I more than enough provocation. Do you want your friend to die!"

He saw the man's face contort in a mixture of anger, doubt and conflicted feelings. Eragon wished, not for the first time, that he wasn't so exhausted. If not for the pain, worry and anger affecting his concentration, he would have been tempted to knock all three of them out, heal the wounded man, and leave. That and doing so would prevent him from gaining information.

On the walk back to the clearing, he and Saphira had discussed many things. Chief among them was the events that had brought three of them here. He remember Saphira struggling to move, held in mid air by a force too strong for the three of them to break, remembered Shruiken hanging over them, Galbatorix on his back. He heard again that manic laugh, the brightness of madness in the king's eyes.

Arya had begun to chant in the ancient language, heard the king scream in rage, and then there had been a blinding blue flash. Next thing he remember, he was lying in pain on the grass his bindings broken, the bulk of Saphira beside him, and Arya draped lifelessly across the saddle. He had tried and failed to wake her, managed to shift her down onto the grass and wrap her in a blanket, when the horn had sounded. He was very worried about Arya.

There was something else upsetting him. This place felt strange to him, his magic was accessible, equally potent and yet, different. When he had healed Boromir, it had taken him longer to access the magic than normal. He had felt, what he could only describe as resistance, before the power had swelled within him like normal. He had no idea where they were, did not dare imagine lest his worst suspicions be confirmed. Right now all he cared about was protecting his companions, and finding help for Arya.

"Why are you helping us?" came the reply at last, drawing him out of his tangled thoughts. The questioner gazed at him, his weathered face still uncertain.

"I'm a rider." he replied with a touch of pride, "I help those who need it. And right now, I need your help as much as you need mine!"

The man looked taken aback by that. Eragon noted with a mix of relief and disquiet that he had not reacted to Eragon referring to himself as a dragon rider, and then remember that they had not reacted when he had mentioned it in passing earlier either. Relief because he was likely far from the Empire, safe for the moment, disquiet because how far had must they have travelled for the legends of the riders not to be known. Eragon wasn't sure, but right now, it seemed like these people had never even heard of the dragon riders. How could they miss they reference if they knew, with Saphira in front of them, her battered saddle clearly visible. Yet they knew something of dragons.

He saw the man's eyes suddenly dart to the saddle on Saphira's back, and saw his eyes widen. He had clearly realised what Eragon meant when he called himself a rider, but did that mean he was just remotely intelligent, or that he knew of the riders. Eragon thought it was the former, but he didn't have time to debate the issue. Another particularly violent fit of coughing wracked the wounded figure of Boromir.

**Legolas POV**

As Eragon stepped forward hurriedly, Legolas pulled back on his bowstring once more, drawing the arrow that he had placed on the string earlier back ready to lose. He wasn't sure what had happened previously, or whether another arrow would prove equally ineffective, but he held the string taut and ready. Should the shaft prove useless, there were always his knives, but he did not imagine they would be much use against a dragon.

The strange came to a halt directly in front of Aragorn, less than 10 paces from where Legolas still stood. He spoke, his words swift, his tone pleading and insistent, clearly audible to Legolas standing near.

"Look, we don't have time. Another of my friends is hurt and I don't know what's wrong with her. She's an elf, I've got no idea where I am or where her people are from here, but she needs better care than I can give her. Your friend is going to die if I don't help him right now. Now, if I help him as I promised, will you help me find help for my friend?

Legolas felt his mouth open slightly in surprise. There was another elf present, aside for the Eragon with his unexplained elfish features? He could not see her, although it now occurred to him that could explain the dragon's failure to move and attack. Unknowingly he had earlier come to the same possible conclusion as Aragorn, that the dragon hadn't attacked Gimli because it was badly hurt. The surprise revelation that an elf accompanied Eragon didn't entirely prevent him from feeling a small amount of apprehension. The beast was more dangerous than he had feared.

He waited silently for Aragorn's response his mind still racing, wondering what the ranger would decide. If he wished Boromir to live he had little choice.

Aragorn appeared to be thinking very fast, for his response came almost immediately.

"Yes" he said sincerely, "if your companion is one of the Eldar, then I swear on my honour I will indeed help you."

Eragon's relief was plain to see. It struck Legolas not for the first time how young the strange elf appeared to be. His behaviour every so often appeared that of a young man, the youthfulness of his features perhaps a true representation of his age, not just the agelessness of the firstborn. Carefully, the wood elf released the tension on his bow string, unnocking the shaft from the golden cord.

He reached out his unwounded hand, and Aragorn grasped it in confirmation of the oath. The two shook with a firm grip, and as they finished Eragon leaned forward a little unsteadily to speak more privately in Aragorn's ear. The ranger listened attentively, and nodded once in agreement, "Yes I think that would be for the best."

A thin smile crossed Eragon's features. "We must hurry. He doesn't have much time, the two you must bring him closer to Saphira."

Aragorn gestured to Legolas. Carefully, the wood elf released the tension on his bow string, unnocking the shaft from the golden cord. Slipping the arrow smoothly into his quiver, he slung the great bow of the Galadhrim over his shoulder, and retook his place at the rear of Boromir's stretcher.

Gimli, who had clearly heard Eragon's words as clearly as himself, took station by the bier, hands on his axe. He stared defiantly at Eragon, clearly about to accompany them, but before the stretcher moved forward, Aragorn held out an arm to block his path. The dwarf looked up in surprise, and an expression of disbelief crossed his bearded face as the ranger shook his head slowly. He gently moved Gimli to one side, before taking a firm hold on the branches that made up the handles.

The dwarf's face contorted in a fascinating mixture of anger, surprise, shock, all at the same time, before finally it settled into a blank emotionless mask. Silently, Gimli son of Gloin stepped backwards, to stand as a short solitary figure on the edge of the clearing. His two companions, carrying their wounded friend, stepped forward nervously, to deposit their burden hurriedly at the feet of Saphira.

Legolas gazed up into the eyes of the dragon, and recognised the intelligence in that gaze. Her long neck bent as she lowered her head to inspect him, the plates of armour flexing smoothly, clearly well oiled. She looked at him, her gaze penetrating, assessing. Then, after what seemed like minutes, but was likely only a few moments, she blinked, and turned her head away. He let out a breath he had not realised he was holding, and caught Aragorn's eye. The ranger did not speak, but simply laid his hand on Boromir's no longer injured shoulder. An unspoken agreement flashed between them, to trust this strange elf, for the moment, and then as one they turned to survey Eragon, who had sunk to his knees beside them.

Pulling back the blankets, he hurriedly but awkwardly began to remove the bandages covering the chest wound, soon aided by Aragorn. Layer by layer the bandages became more heavily stained with blood, until reaching the last sodden piece, they lifted it away to reveal the dark stub of the arrow shaft. A shadow fell over them, and looking up Legolas, who had knelt to provide what aid he could, saw Saphira looking down on them, eyes bright as sapphires.

**Eragon's POV**

Eragon gazed despairingly at the wound, and placing a hand over it, muttered a useful spell he had learnt from his studies. Information flashed through his mind, and he saw with growing worry that the wound had worsened as they moved Boromir. The arrowhead had originally been stopped by Boromir's ribs, not touching anything vital, but still dangerous. His convulsions of pain earlier however movement had caused the barbed arrow to dig into the soft flesh of Boromir's left lung, ripping and tearing with disastrous effect. Blood from torn vessels was slowly filling the unconscious man lung, gradually suffocating him. It was very bad.

Eragorn's growing despair must have shown on his face, for the dark haired man asked "Can you and your companions still help him?" Eragon looked up at Saphira, appealing silently.

"_I am very tired still little one, but I will help as best I can" _came the reply, and Eragon sat a little straighter upright as a surge of warm energy flooded across the link between them. He was unable to find the words, for his emotions were overought, but she knew what he was thinking, and he heard her hum slightly as she felt his love for her across their bond.

He realised he had not answered the question. He sat back, sitting flat on the ground, and leant against one of Saphira's forelegs. His voice when he spoke sounded like that of someone else, flat and toneless. "With Saphira's help, I can try, but can't make any promises. He's very badly hurt." he said,

Their faces showed their worry and concern plainer than words. "Do the best you can" said the elf with hair like sunlight, which glowed slightly even in the shadow of the clearing.

Eragon nodded, not wasting time with a reply, and focussed his attention on the wound. Light glowed from his gedwëy ignasia, picking out the horrible details of the wound in a warm glow. He and Saphira flowed together, merging their minds, sharing their strength, and he felt the vast well of Saphira's power. Tapping that strength, along with his own more meagre supply, he spoke the words in the ancient language. Instantly he felt the drain on his own feeble stamina, and struggled hard to concentrate. His eyes were closed, for he had no need of sight, but his companions watched in wonder as the skin on Boromir's chest seemed to ripple. Reaching out, Eragon unerringly grasped the sticky shaft of the arrow, and drew it slowly from the wound, the fierce barbs gliding smoothly through the flesh, their spikes blunted by magic. After what seemed like an eternity, but what was likely only seconds, the hated thing was free, and lying harmless on the ground. Eragon gave a sigh, and took several deep breaths.

Relatively speaking, that had been the easy part. Now he had to heal the damage. He wasn't sure he could. It was the damage to the organs that would be most difficult. Lungs were fragile things, repairing them would require a lot of energy. He felt Saphira beside him, felt her comforting presence in his mind, supporting him, encouraging him, as she always did.

The spell he used was long, extremely complex, so much so that like many of the complex spells on the ancient text he had learnt it from, Eragon did not understand all the meanings of its parts. It worked though. Beneath his fingers he felt rather than saw the wound flex and twist, the muscles and blood vessels healing, weaving together. Already, before he had even finished, he felt Boromir's breathing become deeper and easier his wounded lung healed. The concentration was pretty intense however, and Eragon was sure that without Saphira's aid and support, he could well have made a serious and possibly fatal error. It was with relief therefore that he felt the strain on his magic and mind gradually ease, and opening his eyes, he saw the the bruising and entry hole on Boromir's chest disappear, and healthy skin appear over the vanished injuries.

Boromir gave a soft cry, and momentarily his eyes flickered open. He stared up at all three of them for a few moments, before his head rolled gently to one side. In concern, his companions leant over him, only to relax as they heard the long steady breathing of a man asleep. The dark haired man looked at Eragon, his relief and gratitude plain to see on his weathered features. "Thank you," he said simply. Eragon dipped his head in acknowledgement.

"Now, may I have your names?" he asked quietly.

The man nodded slowly, hesitating momentarily, before a slight smile crossed his face. "Like you, my name is one that I would not have widely known. Honour dictates I give you my full name, but I hope you will accept just part of it. I am Aragorn, from the North, or Strider as some call me."

My wounded friend here," he said "is Boromir, son of Denethor, a soldier from the realm of Gondor." Aragorn shared a glance with the as yet un-introduced elf. "My other two companions" he said, "I think would prefer to introduce themselves."

The elf smiled, and it was like a ray of the sun had hit his face "Nay, I will not hide my name, not to one who has named himself long ago, and who has remained ignorant of our own without anger. You have healed our companion, though you yourself are wounded, and for that I thank you. My name is Legolas Greenleaf; I come from the forest of Mirkwood, far from here."

Eragon noted that for all his thanks and friendliness, this Legolas, and his companion also, still gazed upon himself with a certain amount of wonder and wariness in their eyes. They were still unsure of him, which was only fair, he was still uncertain whether to trust them. He knew little of them, or their abilities, and they knew a lot more about him, and what he was. Remember his manners, he twisted his hand awkwardly over his chest in the traditional gesture and bowed slightly to the elf, a bow which was gracefully returned.

He leaned back against Saphira's strong foreleg, drawing on her power to heal his wounded arm, now that the harder work was done. It was a clean break, painful but easy to mend. He muttered a few words in the ancient language, wincing as the broken bones knit together. Once more he felt the strange resistance, the greater concentration it took to access his magic, before his power rose up within him. It bothered him, his magic was as strong as ever, perhaps stronger, but there was something in this place that was different. He wondered where he was in Alagaësia. He had never heard of Mirkwood, or Gondor. He could only guess he was somewhere beyond the Beors, somewhere not even the dwarves had truly travelled.

A surge of pain stabbed across his bond from Saphira, causing him to grip his now unwounded arm in pain. In embarrassment he turned to look up at her. "Sorry, I forgot. How bad is it?"

She gazed down at him, and then prodded her right forelimb gently with her nose, causing another softer stab of pain to surge between them. "_It's not too bad, but I can't put any weight on it."_

As he stumbled awkwardly forward from his repose against her left foreleg, she spoke again, the concern clear in her tone. "_Are you sure? It can wait you know, you might do more damage."_

He put his hand on her scaly cheek, rubbing gently. "You healed me, I heal you" he said simply. She hummed softly, turning her vast head slightly beneath his fingers, allowing him to scratch a favourite patch of skin beneath one of her ear. Sometimes it amazed him how much she acted like a big cat, not that he would ever say so for fear of offending her.

He placed a hand on the wounded limb, and drawing on his power, muttered yet another healing spell. It was lucky she was there to support him, the energy drain was not severe, but in his state such delicate magic was risky. Her entire body shivered, as a feeling like the warm from a fire flowed over her wounded foreleg, and it twitched maddeningly. As the feeling vanished, she lifted it slightly moving it from side to side, feeling no pain or stiffness.

"Better?"

"_Much, thank you."_

He perched on her foreleg, gazing across the small clearing at the Dwarf. He was still standing there, alone, and from the looks of things, quite angry. "Aragorn," he called, and the man's head came up from where he had been in conversation with Legolas. "Call over your friend," at Aragorn's concerned look, he hurriedly reassured him "Saphira won't harm him." When Aragorn continued to look unconvinced, Eragon stepped over to him, and added softly "He must want to know how Boromir is doing?"

Aragorn nodded slowly, glancing up at Saphira. She gazed at Aragron, but her words were to her rider. "_Eragon, what are you doing?"_ she asked, her tone flat.

Eragon grimaced; he had guessed she wouldn't be too pleased at him speaking for her without asking. "He insulted us, I know, and that I cannot forgive easily. His friend was badly hurt though, I doubt he was thinking clearly. You and I have both said hurtful things in similar situations. Well, I have. I know I'm asking a lot, but will you let him approach?" he begged.

"_I will, but only for Arya's sake."_

He looked to Aragorn who intelligently had waited, watching them, clearly aware that there was some form of discussion going on. His eyes were on Saphira, who nodded her head, "call him," said Eragon softly.

"GIMLI" said Aragorn loudly, and after a moment's hesitation the dwarf hurried over. It was brave of him, considering his earlier fear, but Eragon, because of his dislike for the dwarf, did not bother to admire him for it.

The dwarf came to a halt in front of Saphira, clutching his axe. It might as well have been a hammer for all the use it would do him, should he decide to attack, but it seemed to give him comfort. His eyes flicked nervously from face to face, and then to Boromir lying still on the ground. "Is he healed?" he spoke after a while, his tone hopeful.

"Yes, he is healed, and sleeping" said Aragorn, who stood at Eragon's shoulder.

Gimli stood a little straighter, "Good, Good" he said shortly. There was an awkward silence, until, realising that Gimli would or could speak no further, Aragorn spoke for him. "This is Gimli son of Gloin, a dwarf from Erebor, from under the mountain in the North."

Eragon gazed at the two of them. Aragorn's face was set, but in concern or irritation at the dwarf's behaviour he could not tell.

He gazed at the dwarf, who raised his eyes, and stared proudly back. Despite himself Eragon could not help but admire his bravery and conviction. Eragon was reminded of Orik, and could not stop himself from grinning. The dwarf scowled, his eyebrows bristling, and feeling he should perhaps not risk angering the dwarf further, Eragon quickly hid his grin.

"Honoured to make your acquaintance Master Gimli," he lied, "It is a surprise to see Dwarves this far south of the mountains." It was at least partly a trick question. Eragon was fishing for some information, hoping to gain some idea where he was.

It wasn't particularly successful; the dwarf just grunted an affirmative. Eragon clamped down hard on a surge of irritation, the dwarf's attitude was tiring, but anger wouldn't achieve anything.

Aragorn, with a speediness that made Eragon make a note never to underestimate him in that department, recognized the problem, and interceded between the two.

"You have our thanks Eragon, we owe you a debt of gratitude for saving our friend," he led Eragon by one arm away from his three companions, to stand together in a corner of the clearing.

**Aragorn's POV**

Aragorn gazed at the figure in front of him. The eyes were bright, but exhaustion hovered behind them. Eragon crossed his arms across his chest, hugging them close, and leaned back against a convenient tree. His every mannerism was that of fatigue.

"Thank you," the ranger said again. "You're welcome" came the quiet reply, the accent strange but easily understandable.

"You promised to help my friend," said Eragon, his tone guarded.

"I did," replied Aragorn in agreement. He felt the elf's eyes upon him, measuring his worth. Aragorn said nothing. Whoever it is that was hurt, she clearly was very dear to the young elf opposite him.

"Follow me" came the quiet words, and Aragorn followed Eragon around the back of Saphira, out of sight of the other three. As they rounded Saphira's massive shoulders, Aragorn saw that Saphira's left wing hung part extended over the small space between the Dragon's fore and hind legs. Around it was piled a small assortment of saddle-bags, provisions and what appeared to be a saddle. Some of the saddle bags were torn, their contents spilling out to reveal clothing, provisions and other small objects. Eragon grabbed a waterskin, and ducked under the edge of the wing, which hung at a little less than shoulder height, Aragorn close behind.

He found himself in a warm shady space about the size of a small room. Above him stretched a roof of leathery skin, growing steadily higher overhead the deeper he advanced, in front of him a curving wall of armour almost the height of two men. All this he saw in a few glances, until his eyes fell upon a dark figure wrapped in blankets at his feet. Eragon was crouching beside the shape, and kneeling down; he beheld a beautiful elf woman, her hair dark as a raven. Her eyes were closed and she was lying very still. Beside her on the ground lay a bow, and a slender sword in a scabbard, which by their grace and art could not belong to anyone else but she.

He exchanged a look with Eragon, understanding now the reason for all the conditions, the guarantees of safety. He loved her, that was obvious, he saw the worry, the concern in those dark brown eyes, the little tell tale signs, the care with which he placed a rolled up tunic under head. Aragorn bent over her. Her features were calm, her breathing slow but steady. She was pale, but not deeply so. There was something unnatural about her complete stillness, so much so that if he could not tell she still breathed, he would think her dead.

"What happened to her?" he asked softly.

Eragon didn't take his eyes off her. "We were attacked, I remember Arya chanting something, there was a flash, and then blackness." He reached out a hand, as if to touch her hand, but checked himself suddenly, as if he had just remembered he was not alone. He actually blushed, then continued his tale.

"When I came round, she was like this. She wasn't hurt by the crash, but she hasn't moved once. She hasn't stirred or moved the entire time. Not once! I don't know what's wrong; I need to get her _help_!"

Aragorn heard the pleading in those last few words, understood it. Whoever this Arya was, to see her hurt and helpless was burning at the heart of this strange young man. That thought surprised him, until he realised that was how he thought of Eragon, how he acted. For all his elvish features, his power and knowledge, he acted like one of the race of men, like a young man of less than 20.

"Will you help me?" The question came, and Aragorn looking up, saw that Eragon was once again staring right at him. His heart went out to the young man. Aragorn had lived a long life, longer than many men. He did not believe these strange people to be evil; he sensed none of the wickedness or treachery of the enemy in them. Eragon had left his friends, despite his worry and exhaustion, to help them. He had healed Boromir, with the help of Saphira. Those were not the action of a servant of the enemy.

"I will aid you" he replied, "North of here, several days travel by boat, is the Elven realm of Lothlórien, home of the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel. There I do not doubt you will find the aid and healing that you seek."

He wondered briefly how the forest guards would react. They welcomed their own kind willingly enough, but in these troubled days, their borders were threatened by many, as Haldir had mentioned. The Lady of the Golden Wood saw much that occurred beyond the borders of her land, but would she accept a dragon and two strangers into her land?

Some of his thoughts clearly showed his face, for Eragon touched his shoulder. "What's wrong?" he asked with concern.

Aragorn looked at him. "Dragons are not popular in this land. They were created long ago, made at the hands of one who's name we do not mention, and have until now served on the side of evil. Nay, do not grow angry, I do not insult Saphira," he added quickly, for Eragon's face had tightened. "I simply seek to warn you," he carried on "I sense that your origins lie far from middle earth! How and why you came I know not, and things there may be very different, but you will fall into pits if you do not learn how things are here."

He thought momentarily, before reaching into his clothing, and pulling out a ring. He handed it to Eragon, who examined it carefully. He gazed at it, two serpents, with emerald eyes, one devouring, the other crowned with golden flowers.

"A token" said Aragorn, "The Lady of the Golden wood will know this came only from me. Show it to her guards, and mention my true name."

Eragon nodded. "Thank you." Aragorn closed his hand around Eragon's right hand, ring and all. "It is a token of my house; it has been handed down from age to age and is worth more than you can imagine. I will want you to return it, once your friend is safe."

Eragon glanced sharply at him, "I don't know whether I will see you again! Surely those in Lothlórien will take care of it for you?"

Aragorn nodded. "They may, and no man may tell where the winds will blow him. However, there is war coming upon this land, and those who fight on the side of light will likely be thrown together. I do not doubt I will see you again, Eragon, Dragon Rider."

He saw Eragon's eyes widen. "I promise nothing." he said wearily, "and anyway it is not just my decision to make, but Saphira's also!"

"Then for now I will say no more. We all need rest, and some must stand guard until dawn."

Eragon got to his feet and began to protest, but Aragorn cut him short. "It is late in the day, and you are both exhausted. Saphira may be swift, but it is still many leagues journey up the Anduin. You cannot see your way in the darkness, and even if you can, the guards on Lothlórien's borders will likely shoot you if you arrive in the dead of night."

Eragon looked as if he was about to protest, and then his shoulders slumped. "Saphira agrees with you" he said tiredly. He gazed down at the still figure of Arya, concern pouring off him.

Aragorn followed his gaze, "You cannot help her if you're exhausted" he stated.

"No, No I can't can I!" said Eragon, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

Aragorn took him by the shoulder, and seated him with his back against Saphira's side.

"Rest there, we will make camp up here tonight and I will tell you more of this land." He said quietly, and stooped to duck back out from under the shelter of Saphira's wing. Behind him, Eragon's eyes never left Arya, and as Aragorn walked round towards his three companions, he crossed eyes with the great Dragon. She gazed at him serenely, her head resting on the ground, the long neck curved so that she could see everything that happened. He gave a slight bow, and was rewarded with the blinking of one great eyelid.

As his companions looked up on observing his return, he wondered tiredly whether tomorrow would prove as traumatic and dangerous as today.

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End of chapter 6

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	6. Chapter 6

**All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the authors. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I do not own the rights or characters to the Eldest Trilogy or to the Lord of the Ring's Trilogy. The eldest Trilogy is the work of Christopher Paolini and the Lord of the Ring's Trilogy is the work of J.R. Tolkein**

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**Chapter 6**

**Eragon's POV  
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Eragon woke suddenly, felt Saphira's voice in his mind, rousing him from the exhausted sleep into which he had fallen the previous evening.

He sat up, winching slightly as the bruises of the present day made their presence known. The clearing was filled with the hazy light of early morning, the grass glistening slightly with dew. He could hear the soft calls of birds, the soft roar of water from somewhere; smell the freshness of a new day, and more distinctly, the pungent odour of pipesmoke. From his bed of blankets between Saphira's fore legs, he could see the entire clearing. Propping himself up, he leant gently against one of the vast limbs beside him, blinking as his brain slowly came to life. He felt a shove on his right shoulder, and turning his head, found Saphira's head next to his. He smiled sleepily, and with his right hand scratched the rough skin of her cheek. She hummed quietly, and rubbed against his fingers.

He nodded to the figure seated on a tree stump across the clearing from him. Aragorn was on watch, had according to Saphira woken several hours previously to take over from Legolas the elf. The ranger waved a hand at him, the other holding a small pipe, the source of the pipe smoke. Eragon stirred himself, pushing aside his rumpled blankets and pulling on his boots. He tightened his belt, slipping his knife into its holster and pulling on his gloves. His helmet and armour lay nearby, the dwarven rings wrapped in cloth to prevent rust. He pulled back the cloth, grimacing at the stains and rust on the metal. The charms in the metal had protected it from damage, but it still needed care and occasional cleaning.

He left the armour for now, wrapping it back up, and crossed around the back of Saphira. There would be time later, for he had promised Aragorn to wait. He ducked under her wing, and knelt down next to Arya. She was warmly wrapped in blankets, which he softly pulled back. With enormous relief he saw that some colour had returned to her cheeks, and that she breathed more easily. He touched her shoulder, but she didn't stir. He shook her slightly, but still there was no reaction. Carefully, remembering vividly what had happened the first time he had tried this, he extended his senses, trying to touch her mind. His probe ran into iron strong shields. He probed gently, searching for some chink, or detail that might shed light on her condition. He could find nothing. It felt as if she was asleep, a deep exhausted sleep, but he knew no one who maintained their shields while sleeping. There was no point, as one could not touch another's mind if that person was asleep anyway. So how, not to mention why was Arya doing this? He sat back on his heels, perplexed, and still deeply concerned.

His studies had admittedly taught him that the brain never really shut down. He knew of no one however who could maintain their mental shielding when not conscious, and few who could do it at such strength even when awake. Try as he might, he could not prevent his mind returning to the fateful journey to Farthen Dur the first time he had met her. His worry for her then had been severe, and at least then he had known what was wrong with her, after she nearly crushed him with her mind the first time at least. Here, he had no idea. He had heard of magical exhaustion, but that was a cause of sleep, not a symptom. He shared his thoughts with Saphira, but she was just as perplexed as him.

"_The last thing either of us remember, before the flash, was Arya casting._"Saphira mused. Eragon nodded. Yes, he remembered that, although his memories of the moment was chaotic, using magic, trying to escape Shruiken, he also remembered Arya's hands glowing, blue nimbuses of magical energy growing in each palm. "What of it" he asked

"_Well, considering what we learnt last night, about where we are, or rather, where we aren't, could Arya have been trying to, transport, us from danger?"_ Eragon pondered that silently. Prior to turning in the previous night, despite his exhaustion, he and Aragorn had spoken long. Eragon and Saphira had been shocked to find they were no longer in Alagaësia_, _but in a land Aragorn refered to as Middle Earth. Eragon had refused to believe it at first. He was still uncertain whether everything he had heard was true. Aragorn did not seem the type to lie. Eragon, Saphira and Arya had somehow travelled far, far from lands they were familiar with. Eragon had hoped at first they were simply elsewhere in Alagaësia, perhaps in the lands the humans he was descended from had left centuries ago.

As he had listened, and absorbed the stories Aragorn shared with him, answering Eragon's many questions as best he could, he had felt his heart begin to sink. Many things were the same here, dwarves, elfs, men, dragons, but they were also different. Too different! Aragorn had never heard of the riders, had questioned Eragon curiously about them, his eyes widening slightly when he learnt of a rider's power, the magic and strength they could access. He himself had spoken of Numenor, an isle of near immortals, a human kingdom of majesty and grace, that had sunk beneath the waves, after its inhabitants broke their word to their gods, and sought the endless life of the elves. He had spoken of the lore of this land, how Numenor's descendants had established two great kingdoms of men, which had endured for thousands of years, but were now facing an enemy that sought to destroy them, and all free peoples of this land. Aragorn had not said much, but the intensity in his tone had said just as much. He had also revealed that the foul creatures Eragon had killed were servants of that self same enemy. Neither Saphira or Eragon had been happy to learn they had landed in the middle of a war,

He shook himself out of his musing with an effort, returning to his consideration of Saphira's question. He knew magic could transport objects, Saphira was living proof of that, but his studies had never touched on it being able to move living people. Was it even possible, or safe? It was something he had never considered. Had Arya been trying to transport them? It might explain the flash, which had been blue, like that which had heralded the arrival of Saphira's egg in the spine. It looked like she had succeeded, but at what cost to herself?

"_She can't have used up all her strength, or she'd be dead," _contributed Saphira. Eragon nodded. "I doubt she intended to send us so far either" he said wryly, "perhaps she made a mistake?" He listened to Saphira's reply, and cut her off.

"Hang on, I'm not being unfair. I doubt Arya would usually make a mistake, goodness knows she's been doing this far longer than either of us. Just listen ok." Saphira made a noise that to him sounded very much like a snort, but fell silent. Eragon considered his argument, then laid it out to her.

"We were fighting. Galbatorix was there." Eragon paused and shivered slightly, remembering the horrifying madness in the old kings laugh, his shriek of anger. "Arya was doing magic, trying to save us, or transport us or something. He was fighting us with his mind, trying to control us, i could barely concentrate. Perhaps, perhaps he did something caused the spell to go wrong?"

She was silent for a few moments. "_It's possible. Without knowing what spell, what wording Arya was using, we can't be sure. If she did manage to throw us into another world, the magic drain would be enormous. It would explain why we blacked out, why we were so drained yesterday, even though we only fought for minutes. The spell drew energy from us. As for Arya..."_

Eragon felt the concern in her words, and leant against her side. Arya and Saphira had become very close. Part of it was due to their mutual respect, and the time the three had spent travelling together. Another part of it was very much his fault, his feelings and affection for the beautiful elf princess. Their bond meant Eragon and Saphira were always aware of each other's feelings and emotions. If necessary they could block the bond, but to do so cut at the very heart of what they were. So his feelings for Arya crossed the bond to Saphira, and although she was still her own creature, the nature of their link meant that the pair of them were very much one body at times. "_She's alive Eragon. She's not getting worse. Whatever is wrong with her, we can't help her here." _He nodded, and rising to his feet, ducked under the roof that was formed by Saphira's leathery left wing.

* * *

**Gimli's POV**

Gimli woke to a new day. His eyes swept the clearing, his hand resting in readiness on the haft of his axe. When no danger presented itself, he relaxed his grip, and sat more leisurely upright. Aragorn nodded a friendly greeting to him from a tree stump, his pipe smoke drifting gently accross the clearing in the soft breeze. Gimli finished fastening on his boots and placing his helmet on his head, rose smoothly to his feet, crossing to where their provisions and water were piled. Tugging free a waterskin from the assorted goods, he took several draughts of clear water, and felt instantly refreshed. He crossed to Aragorn, still carrying the waterskin, and proffered it. The ranger took it with a soft 'thank you.' As he drank Gimli surveyed the clearing. Nearby Legolas lay under a single blanket, walking in dreams, his eyes still open, his mind far away. About 20 feet away, lay the vast shape of the Dragon, its long neck resting on the ground, eyes alert and unblinking. Of Eragon there was no sign, save an empty huddle of blankets beneath the Dragon's feet. Between the Dragon and Legolas lay the swaddled form of Boromir, exactly where they had placed him the previous day.

Gimli opened his mouth, was about to ask Aragorn how the man from Gondor was doing, and then he checked himself. He eyed the dragon intently for a few moments, which returned his gaze calmly, and then crossed to his the side of his wounded companion. Boromir was still breathing softly, fast asleep, but his face showed healthy colour. By his side lay his gear, his shield with the emblem of the city, the great horn, his bow and quiver, and slightly separate, the shattered fragments of his sword. Gimli, reassured that his fellow was ok, and happy that he had proved his courage if only to himself, gathered up the broken pieces of the sword carefully. He returned to the side of Aragorn, and laying his cloak on the ground, spread the pieces of broken sword out on it. He sat & examined it, turning the pieces over and over in his practiced hands. The blade, had split into three pieces a quarter along it's length. It was not a bad break, he thought, the blade was strong, well forged. It was not a famous blade, but it was sturdy, and he thought it might be remade, if there was time. Dragonfire it was called in the common tongue, and had served Boromir well. Hopefully it would again.

He passed the hilt to Aragorn, who examined it. He eyed the break, and ran his eyes over the runes on the blade near the handle. He returned it to Gimli.

"A good blade" he commented.

"Indeed. Slightly worn, but well cared for. Not a dwarf blade of course, but we make fewer swords these days. Our skill in the Mountain* is with stone, though we make keen armour and axes." He said, tapping his own which rested on his knees.

Aragorn nodded, returning to his pipe.

"Where is Eragon?" asked Gimli, slightly suspiciously.

"Tending to his friend no doubt. We are not the only ones with wounded comrades on our mind friend Gimli. Ours at least is healed, his is still sick"

The dwarf said nothing, only tapped his fingers on his axe haft.

"What of the Hobbits," he asked after a moment. "Can Boromir be moved?"

"He will be slightly weak no doubt, but his wounds are healed. I intend to follow the Orcs trail, we will leave shortly."

Gimli looked dubious. "Should we not leave as soon as possible? They have already a whole night ahead of us. If we are to have any hope of following their trail, we must leave soon."

Aragorn shook his head. "They are far away by now I fear, but I will follow as long as there is any hope. What we saw of the trail yesterdays suggests they will head North and west, to Isenguard by their tokens. Our best hope is that the patrols of the men of Rohan will intercept them. They watch their lands closely in these days, like any who fight the enemy. With luck, we will meet some of their patrols. On horse, we could well make up the ground. It is maybe 80 leagues westerly to Isengard from here, but on horse the distance is far less. Alas, the east Emnett is thinly settled, and the Wold to the north is a barren land. The dwellings of the Rohirrim are far to the south-west.. If we are to travel, we must travel fast and light, Boromir will need as much rest as we can give him."

Just then Eragon walked into view around the side of Saphira, carrying a leather bag. Like Gimli, he checked on Boromir, bending over the man of Gondor for a few moments. Apparently satisfied, he returned to where his blankets still lay, and dropping the leather bag onto the grass, and picked up a cloth package. Intrigued, Gimli watched, wondering what the strange elf was doing. The answer soon came. Eragon pulled out a silver corslet of rings, and bending over it, began to rub at it with an oil and cloth from the leather bag. Curious, despite himself, Gimli gazed at the rest of Eragon's gear. It was strange. Most of it was normal enough, gauntlets, helmet, corslet and leather padding, but the style was unusual to him. He had seen many different sets of armour, dwarven, that of men, from North South and Dale, and even some elven gear made for the warriors of Mirkwood. That gear was most unlike this; Elven gear was usually graceful, strong and light. The armour of this strange Elf was more like that of men, well made but practical. Only his white bow was clearly Elf work. Interestingly, Gimli had seen no sign of a sword, or scabbard, despite the sword belt the stranger clearly wore. It was he thought merely one of many questions about this stranger he would like to ask.

He had the feeling he was being watched, and looking up, to find Aragorn's dark eyes surveying him. The ranger's face was calm, not discomforted at being caught staring. He returned Gimli's curious stare calmly for a few moments, looking thoughtful, then nodded towards Eragon.

"Did you know his gear is made by dwarfs?" he said calmly.

Gimli was surprised, both because he doubted any Dwarf would associate with a friend of Dragons, and that Aragorn knew. "_No_" said Gimli, instinctively denying it.

"Yes" countered Aragorn, "as is the armour on Saphira." Gimli gripped his axe angrily. The ranger's words were angering him. That any dwarf should associate with Dragons, long his races enemy even before the loss of the Lonely mountain to Smaug, he considered almost treasonous. He wondered who could have made such armour and where. Now that he looked at it, i did indeed look like it could be the work of his race's craftsmen, and from the inlay, expensive too. The scale of it would require a major workshop, and while his race had many outposts, scattered across Middle Earth, he knew none who would undertake it. His race had long memories, and the wars with the Dragons in the Ered Mithrin** or the cruelties of Smaug would never be forgiven or forgotten.

"Gimli, please hold your anger for the moment. I know of your races hatred for Dragons, but from what Eragon has said, it was no dwarf from this world that hammered that armour."

Gimli started slightly, as did Aragorn, for it was Legolas who had spoken, whom they had though asleep. The elf was still lying on the ground, but his eyes, which previously had been staring into some unimaginable distance, were now clear. The wood elf was gazing at Saphira, his features calm, and obviously fully awake.

"What do you mean?" said Gimli gruffly. It was a measure of how the company had bonded in adversity that he no longer referred to Legolas as 'elf,' but his tone was curt nonetheless.

"Eragon and I spoke last night while you were on watch," explained Aragorn. "He spoke the truth, unless i am very much mistaken, when he told me he had never before heard of Middle Earth. It seems he and his companions are not from this world Gimli. They came here against their will; from a land he called Alagaësia."

As one Aragorn and his two companions turned to gaze at Saphira. She eyed them curiously, her great blue eyes shining slightly in the early grey light of morning.

"Did he say where this land is? Is he from far to the North or South, or across the sea?" Asked Gimli, his tone disbelieving.

"I do not think he is from this earth, but where his world is i know not," came the rangers quiet reply.

There was silence among the three companions.

"Another world," breathed Legolas softly, "did the Valar make more than one?"

"I don't know. Perhaps Gandalf would have known, but nothing I have ever heard or read spoke of others," admitted Aragorn.

"Is it a trick? How do we know if we can trust him?" said Gimli, but he said it softly, wary of Saphira overhearing.

"He has not told us everything, but his actions have been honourable enough. I am not arrogant enough to assume my judgement is perfect, but i feel this Eragon means neither us nor any on the side of light any harm. He spoke of being a 'dragon rider,' and from what he told me last night, the duty of his order is to protect the people and to keep the law in his land. He protected Boromir, even when wounded, at great risk to himself. Those are not the actions of any follower of the enemy."

"But can we trust him", said Legolas quietly, repeating Gimli's question.

"He has sworn on his honour that neither of them will harm us. I don't believe he will break it. His concern anyway is not for us, but for his friend."

Gimli and Legolas looked thoughtful. Aragorn had spoken to them of the beautiful elf women, and her obvious hurt, but neither had actually seen her. They understood only too well Eragon's concern for his wounded friend. They had felt the same for Boromir, and for healing him, whatever his other motives, they all owed Eragon a debt. Now they must worry about the hobbits, their little friends, who would suffer horrors they feared to imagine lest they were rescued. Yes, they understood Eragon's concern well enough.

"Come," said Aragorn firmly, "There is no more time for talk. We must travel light when we pursues. We cannot carry much, so we must abandon much of our gear. Let us gather our gear together, and collect what we will need. We must leave soon."

And so, as they sun rose slowly in the pale sky, the three companions moved quietly around the clearing, collecting together what they would need, and making a hidden pile under a bush of that they must abandon. In the dim sunlight they appeared almost as shades, such was the power of their elven rainment. They were forced to abandon much of their store of provisions, rationing themselves only to about a week's lean rations. The provisions from Lothlorien they had carried in quantity, for the generosity of the elves meantthey had many packets of the fulsome lembas, which took up less space and was lighter than other provision.

Water too they carried, but less than normal, for they hoped to save weight, and replenish their store from streams or brooks. They had carried little personal gear anyway, but they left behind all their winter gear, for their grey elf cloaks were wonderfully warm and lighter than anything else. That aside from their weapons, and some little personal items, was all they carried. None save Gimli wore any armour, for they had not dressed for travel, not battle before setting out. Only the Dwarf wore a coat of Dwarf rings, marvellously light and strong compared to any work of man.

After everything was ready, they roused Boromir. He roused as if from a deep sleep, coming awake slowly, to gaze upwards at the figures standing over him.

* * *

**Boromir's POV  
**

Boromir blinked, and then sat upright. His memory prior to his falling sleep seemed shrouded in fog. He gazed upwards at his three companions, taking in their concerned expressions, and wondering what was wrong.

"How do you feel Boromir?" asked Aragorn, and to Boromir's suprise, there was a look of something like wonder on the ranger's weathered features.

"Hungry." He replied truthfully. A thin smile creased Aragorn's face, and wordlessly the ranger handed him a plate of provisions. On it was bread, cheese, and the last of their ham. "Eat it quickly, and enjoy it" advised the ranger, "it's the last we'll see for some time."

"Why?" said Boromir, still confused. He couldn't seem to remember what had happened. Why were the others gazing at him so intently, and where were the hobbits. He gazed around the clearing, on the opposite side from his three companions, but saw no sign of the half-lings. He did not recognise the clearing either, this was not where they had camped afer landing from the Anduin. His gaze fel suddenly on his war gear, laid on the grass by his side next to his pack, and next to it on a cloak, he saw his sword, shattered into three pieces.

Suddenly he remembered, the sight of the sword drawing the memory from his fuddled mind, and he clapped his hand suddenly to his shoulder. He scrabbled at the clean cloth of what he recognised as his spare jerkin, and when the fabric pulled away, he saw with amazement that the shoulder was perfectly unharmed. Gone too was the scar he had had there since childhood, when he fell from a horse that was too big for him. He hurriedly unlaced the jerkin and examined his chest, expecting to see bandages, but all he saw was unmarked skin.

He stared at it in wonder, had he imagined it. He gazed up at his three companions in mute astonishment.

"I was shot," he managed after a few seconds. The Uruk, i..." he broke off, suddenly remembering everything. "Merry and Pippin," he said in shock, "the Uruks carried them off, i tried to hold them off, but there were too many, and they had bows." He gazed frantically around the clearing, but still could see no sign of the hobbits. "They have taken them," he realised mournfully.

"Yes, which is why we must hurry Boromir. We have let you rest as long as we dared, but we must be away as soon as possible. The Uruks headed north, and we must pursue."

Boromir nodded slowly, still trying to take everything in. "and Frodo and Sam?" he said suddenly, gazing up at Aragorn. Was he imagining it, or did a shadow cross Aragorn's face at the mention of the ring bearer."

"They are gone, they crossed the river, and have gone on alone. They are beyond our reach now!" replied the ranger softly. The two men stared at each other for a moment, and then Aragorn held out a hand to Boromir. The man of Gondor hesitated, then took it, and was hauled to his feet. The movement made his chest hurt, but the discomfort was slight, no more than a dull bruising sensation.

"Aragorn, Legolas Gimli," he said carefully, "what happened?" He gestured to his chest. "I was shot, I know it." As he spoke he leant down to pick up his leather sur-coat, his gaze fell on the holes and staining in the tough leather. He held it up, and fingered the hole in the chest. An arrow hole, high on the left breast. He shivered, he remembered that dart. It should have killed him.

He held it up plain to see before his comrades. "How was I healed?"

"_I healed you_", came a new voice from behind Aragorn.

His companions exchanged a glance, and then parted before Boromir, moving to his side. Behind them ,previously shielded from his view by their bodies, was a sight that made his breath catch.

A shining silver warrior, wearing a helm of bright metal and a silver corslet of rings, with a white bow clasped in silver over his shoulder, stood behind lay a mighty dragon, whose eyes glimmered like sapphires in the early morning light.

Boromir was struck dumb, remembering the shining figure he had seen in the clearing before everything turned to blackness.

"This is Eragon, and his dragon Saphira," spoked Aragorn quietly in his ear. "A traveller, lost in these lands, to whom we owe a great debt."

The strange warrior gazed at Boromir measuring for a few moments. Then he nodded, and turning away, picked up what appeared a richly decorated saddle, but larger than that of any horse. As Boromir watched spellbound, he mounted the dragon's side, and seated the saddle on its back, in a gap between two ivory spikes along its spine. He slid easily down, and as the Dragon rose slightly onto its limbs, passed the lashings and girths under the vast belly. Jumping upwards, he climbed back onto the Dragon's back, only to drop out of sight over the other side.

At his disappearance, Boromir shook himself out of his daze. He turned questioningly to Aragorn. The ranger smiled thinly. "A long tale," he said by way of explanation, "and one we don't have time for now. They mean us no harm, but travel north to Lothlorien at haste. We ourselves must hurry. Here. We have collected your pack, and you must choose what to leave. We must travel light and far, the Orcs that took Merry and Pippin have travelled North, across open country, and we must travel fast to catch them, for they have a night's advance on us!"

Boromir nodded, and fearing deeply for the cheerful hobbits at the hands of the Orcs, began hurriedly to open his pack.

* * *

**Aragorn's POV  
**

As the man of Gondor gathered his possessions, Aragorn crossed to where Eragon and Saphira made ready. As he watched, the strange elf, high up on Saphira's back, began to tie saddlebags and blankets onto the saddle. Before his eyes, the rider stretched out a hand towards a heavy leather bag, and muttered a few words. The bag rose unsupported, and as if carried by an unseen hand, flew to Eragon's outstretched hand. The elf took it, and strapped it into place with lashings on the saddle.

Aragorn kept his face impassive, but inwardly he was once again struck with wonder, and not a little fear. Such magic he had never seen, none so casual, nor so convenient. Gandalf's magic was not the magic of this stranger. The old wizard had rarely used magic so openly, and his was more subtle, and he did not doubt, powerful. What different power had this stranger from another land, and what should happen if he turned to the enemy.

Eragon finished strapping on the last bundle, and in one bag, Aragorn saw the bow and sword of the raven haired elf woman. Eragon turned to him. "Will you help me carry her up," he asked.

"It is the least i can do," responded Aragorn truthfully, and circled around Saphira's fore-body to where she still lay.

"How will you carry her." he asked curiously.

"I will lash her to the saddle before me. There are fastenings and charms upon it, she will not fall."

At a glance from Eragon, Saphira, who was watching them, sank slowly onto her belly, her legs stretched before her. Even so, her back was still a good 15 feet above them. Eragon climbed on her side, climbing up a foreleg. Clinging onto a spike, he watched as Aragorn carefully gathered up the elf women. She was not heavy, and as he passed her into Eragon's hands, the early sunlight fell onto her face. It was a face of great beauty, he noted, the features strong and graceful. Eragon balanced carefully, sure footed despite the burden and steep climb, and rose carefully onto Saphira's back. Placing her on a flat surface of leather before the his saddle he horn, he strapped her awkwardly but carefully into the saddle, dressed in a hooded cloak of emerald green and swaddled in blankets against the cold and wind.

As Aragorn watched, Saphira's long neck flexed, as her head turned to gaze at Eragon. She looked her rider's face, as some silent communication passed between them. She nosed gently at the elf woman's secure form, as if checking herself that she was safe. Yet again, Aragorn wondered at these strangers. From where did they come, and in what land could three so different be so close. He wondered also, not for the first time, what bond there was between Eragon and the beautiful elf woman. He cared for her deeply, that was obvious, but his actions were of both a friend, and one in love. He had tried to hide the latter, but Aragorn had lived too long around men and elves not to notice. The latter were harder to read, but this Eragon was by his own account no typical elf.

Clearly happy that his companion was secure, Eragon jumped down, landing easily despite the distance off the ground.

He picked up his bow from where he had laid it on the ground, and checking it's cord, slid it into a quiver he know wore on his shoulder. The quiver was full of white fletched arrows, but the silver chased bow slid in easily, by some art or skill of design. Aragorn studied him. Eragon also wore a long knife in a sheaf on his belt over his mail, but although he also wore sword belt, and baldrick, he bore no sword.

"Do you have no sword." Asked Aragorn, unable to withhold his curiousity. The rider's face darkened slightly. "Not anymore" he said curtly, and with a touch of sadness.

Aragorn didn't pry.

He drew Eragon aside and spoke to him quietly. "I pray your friend will be well. Be comforted, for the Lady and healers of the Golden Wood are wise and their knowledge in the lore of healing is deep."

Eragon nodded, seemingly trying to look hopeful. He attempted a thin smile but his features were worried. He was clearly eager to be off.

Aragorn nodded. "I hope to see you again, Eragon, Dragon Rider, and you too Saphira, Vervada's daughter. As i have said, there is war coming upon this land, and those who fight on the side of light will no doubt come together. I know not how you came here, or whether you can return, but i owe you a debt, and if can help you return home in anyway, will. I hope however, that you will return my ring in person, and that you will join us against the dark."

Eragon frowned at him. "Perhaps," he said carefully, "but for now I can only thank you for your advice and your kindness."

"_Neither man nor dragon knows where fate will blow him, Aragorn, son of the North_" came the deep voice of Saphira in Aragorn's mind, "_but I also thank your help, and will not forget your kindness. May your sword stay sharp man known as Strider!_"

He bowed slightly to her, and she gazed at him intently with those deep ageless eyes.

Eragon paused as if remembering something, and mounting Saphira's side, rummaged in a saddle bag. He withdrew a small flask, and dropped to the ground with the grace of a cat.

He handed it to Aragorn, who looked at him, wondering what the flask contained. "It is faelnirv***, a refreshing cordial made by the elves. This is all I can spare, and there are only a few mouthfuls, but it is wonderfully refreshing when tired or weak, for there is magic in it. I got this from the elves not three days ago, and I feel it will be more use to your friend than me." He gave a thin smile. "If what you've told me is true, you have a long run ahead of you, and I have another flask here in case I need some," he said, tapping his chest.

"Thank you." said Aragorn, deeply grateful, for he feared for Boromir. He was healed true, but he was weak, and the way ahead was long."

Eragon nodded, and with a bound, was climbing swiftly up Saphira's armored flanks. He reached the ornate saddle, and began to strap himself into place.

As he checked his and Arya's lashings, Aragorn, hesitated, and then climbed up a little way after him. Saphira snorted, and turned to look at him in surprise. His companions, standing ready to leave, also gazed open mouthed with surprise. Aragorn held firmly onto a spike, his feet slipping on the smooth plates of metal. He secured his footing, and looked up to see Eragon looking at him, surprise clear on his face. Aragorn gestured, and the elf lent down so that his face was nearer the rangers.

Aragorn spoke. "There is a chance that on your way north, you will encounter the Orcs that took our friends. I've perhaps asked too much of you already, but if you can, you might aid us further. "

Eragon gestured at the figure of his friend. "I must get Arya to help. I don't know what's wrong with her. Every second might count," he added nervously, and the fear was clear upon his features.

Aragorn grimaced, but persisted in his request. "I know, she's your friend, and I can tell seeing her hurt cuts at your heart. But my friends are alone, held captive and possibly hurt. Imagine how you'd feel if Arya was held prisoner, alone, at the hands of creatures fouler than you could imagine. Aragorn paused.

"You might not be able to stop them, and i fear if you are not careful, you might hurt them by mistake. But should you encounter them, can I at least ask you to try slow them down somehow. Even a small delay might help. Orcs fear dragons like anyone else, and fright easily, you might force them into stopping and taking shelter.

Saphira let out a snort of smoke, "_vermin"_ she said unheard to Aragorn in Eragon's mind, "_worse than Urgals."_

Eragon swore quietly under his breath, and raised his gloved hand to his rub his forehead. Aragorn saw the conflict on his face. Content at least that he had made his request; Aragorn loosened his footing, and slid to the ground. He landed awkwardly, but recovered his balance, and gazed up at the figure in shining mail on the dragon's back.

"I can't promise anything," the elf resolved loudly, as Saphira rose onto her feet, so that her rider sat far far above. "But we will try!"

Before Aragorn could reply Saphira launched herself into the sky, the air tangibly vibrating as her great wings struggled for purchase. Tree branches shook, leaves falling to the ground at the force of her passage, as she struggled out of the small space that was the clearing. Her tail swept against a number of saplings, and the four companions ducked, as the trees shattered and cracked at the force of the dragon's passing.

A minute later, she was already far above, climbing steadily into the morning sky. The sun glinted brightly off her harness and armour, and off the helmet of the figure on her back She headed steadily northwards, dwindling slowly to a dot on the horizon. Before she had gone even a half a league, Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas and Gimli were on the move, moving swiftly through the woods. They headed north and east, descending out of the woods and along the first stretches of grassland that marked the beginnings of the open land of the men of Rohon. With Aragorn leading, taking the trail, they followed the beaten track of their quarry, beaten like a road by the iron shod feet of their quarry.

**End of Chapter 6**

Index:

* The Mountain:

The lonely mountain, or Erebor, located to the east of Mirkwood, and the subject of much of the Hobbit.

** Ered Mithrin:

The Grey Mountains. The mountain range to the North of the Lonely Mountain, once the location of thriving dwarf colonies. The Dwarves were driven by the attacks of the Dragons who lived north of the mountains, one of whom, Smaug, later flew south to attack the Lonely mountain itself.

*** Faelnirv:

One of the drinks of the elves of Alagaësia. According to Eragon, it is a clear liquer that tastes like mulled cider mixed with mead. It is distilled from crushed elderberries and spun moonbeams. According to the elves, a strong man can travel for three days on it consuming nothing else.

* * *

**Apologies everyone for the delay. I have been and am still very busy with work, but managed to write this in a moment of abstraction. Hope you enjoy, and thank you for your support.**

**Please review :), it doesn't take any effort !!!!**


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